More Precious than Gold
by alphashley14
Summary: After he is killed by a black arrow, Smaug is reborn as William Sherlock Scott Holmes. In this new life, Sherlock learns something that was denied to him as a dragon: love. And he gathers a horde far more precious than the gold he left under the mountain. When Moriarty tries to take three of Sherlock's most beloved treasures away, what is a dragon to do? Dragonlock!
1. I: Never steal from a dragon

**More Precious Than Gold**

 **I**

The dragon was restless. At times like this, it took every ounce of self-control William Sherlock Scott Holmes possessed to _not_ let the beast loose. He was tied to a chair in the basement of a secret facility on an island somewhere off the coast of the northern tip of Britain. A facility owned and operated by the criminal network of one Jim Moriarty. Yep, the crazy bastard was alive and kicking, standing a few yards away from Sherlock with a smug smile on his face, listening to the Bee-Gees, chewing a piece of bubble gum, while his men beat Sherlock senseless.

A punch to his jaw, a kick to his shin, an elbow to his cheekbone, a knee to his gut. _How dare they?_ The dragon inside him seethed. _I am Smaug. I am magnificent. I am beautiful. I am powerful. How dare you defile me, human insects? I am fire! I am death!_

But, Sherlock kept his dragon self at bay. He only had one reason. One precious reason why he didn't go dragon on these assholes, burn them all to a crisp, and eat Moriarty like an M&M. Well, okay, he technically had seven. Seven precious reasons not to go dragon, _ever_. Their names were John and Rosie Watson, Mycroft and Eurus Holmes, Molly Hooper, Martha Huston, and Greg(?) Lestrade. His horde. His treasure.

After a while, Moriarty ordered his men off of Sherlock's battered body and asked again, "Where are the documents?"

And as he had done for the past two days, Sherlock promptly spat in his face and snarled, "Piss off."

This time, unlike the others, rather than give him a slap for his disrespect or order his men to start beating him again, Moriarty shrugged and said, "Shame. But I have to hand it to you Sherlock, you certainly haven't made this boring." Before leaving Sherlock alone for the night with his men following close behind like a couple of dogs.

This, left Sherlock plenty of time to ponder over what in his life (or lives, he wasn't sure which phrase he should use) had led up to this point.

First, he'd been killed in his previous life by a human with a black arrow. He, Smaug, King Under the Mountain, killed by a _human_. Honestly, it was a humiliating thought. Then, rather than waking up in some dark pit in hell, he'd opened his eyes to find himself, rather than in the magnificent form of the last dragon, inside the body of a human child, barely a month old. At least, that was around the time he began to recall who, or more accurately, _what_ he was.

Honestly, his first year or two as a human passed in a bit of a blur. He had a concept of time, and a rough recollection of what was going on around him (sometimes he could understand exactly what everyone was saying around him, other times he could only tell whether or not it was good or bad by their tone of voice). There were some moments when he found himself wanting to murder and devour the three humans he found himself living in a large house with, and other times that he was merely a human child. But all in all, his experiences in his earliest years were miserable and confusing. But through the blur, Smaug- no, _Sherlock_ (as he quickly figured out his name was, according to his _Mummy_ , _Daddy_ , and his fat brother, _Mycroft_ ) learned something that growing up and living as a dragon had denied him in his previous life. That wonderful thing was something he heard about and laughed at in his life as a dragon, but never experienced for himself.

That wonderful thing, was love.

He learned it every time his Mummy sang to him and rocked him until he fell asleep, he learned it every time his Daddy played with him, and he learned it when his brother sat down with him in his lap, and did his best to explain the world to him (but of course, Mycroft only ever did that when he thought no one but Sherlock could see or hear him). Smaug/Sherlock didn't know where he was or why he was there rather than in hell, but by the time he was six months old, he figured out that he was loved. And by the time he was two, he realized that he loved them back. He, the dragon Smaug, actually grew to _love_ three humans. And he grew to love the fourth too, his sister Euros, who joined the family shortly after his first birthday. Though, after the incident with Victor Trevor, he wouldn't remember that for years.

Out of all of them, though he'd never admit it, Sherlock grew to love his brother, Mycroft, the most. Sure, as he got older he picked on him about his weight and treated him like shit at times (which he was not the only one guilty of), but he did love his brother more than the others. Mycroft taught him more than Mummy and Daddy ever did. And while it was Euros who taught him to read and write music and play the violin (again, he wouldn't remember that for years)...

Who pointed at random people on the streets and taught him how to deduce? Mycroft.

Who taught him that pretty much all people were idiots except for the Holmes siblings? Mycroft.

Who taught him how to make a mind palace? Mycroft.

Who played deductions with him when they were little? Mycroft.

Who protected him from Euros when she tried to physically and/or mentally torture him? Mycroft.

Who finally taught him how to walk? Mycroft.

Sherlock started talking three months before most children did, much to the astonishment of his family, and was having full, fluent conversations by the time he was nine months old. From his life as a dragon, he already knew how to speak the tongue of man, it just took him that long to figure out how to use a human mouth and vocal cords to make words. Walking, however, was a very different story.

Most children start walking between the ages of nine and twelve months. Sherlock, however, had walking on all fours in his centuries of muscle-memory from his previous life. With feet and hind legs designed entirely differently from that of a human's, plus a tail for balance, no less. Mummy and Daddy gave up on him by the time he was seventeen months old and were looking into putting him in physical therapy, or even a wheelchair. Not Mycroft.

Mycroft sat with him for hours, telling him what he was doing wrong, catching him when he fell, and correcting his stances, every single day, for almost three months. Dealing with Sherlock's frustration, stubbornness, pride, and fits of anger that resulted from them. Then, finally, when he had just turned two, he walked on his chubby little legs, all the way across the living room floor, into the arms of his brother. It was so long ago, but Sherlock still remembered clear as day, Mycroft running his fingers over Sherlock's very short black hair and saying, " _Well done, brother mine."_

That, was the day Sherlock realized he loved his brother.

He loved Mycroft. The others, took a little more time to get attached to. And even when he did decide he loved his _entire_ family, he knew that deep down, he would slaughter Mummy, Daddy, and Euros, before carving out his own heart, if it meant saving Mycroft. In this life, Smaug had no gold. No jewels. He wasn't ' _King Under the Mountain'_ anymore. But that did not mean he did not have treasure. Sherlock _did_ have a horde. He guarded it with his life. He'd die before he'd part with a single piece, and Mycroft Holmes was the first piece Sherlock acquired.

Even today, who always got what Sherlock asked for for his cases? Mycroft.

Who always bailed him out of trouble when he could? Mycroft.

Who always took some time out of his schedule to come and visit him, even if he didn't want to be visited? Mycroft.

Who could always be suckered into a game of deductions? Mycroft.

Who helped him fake his death and kept his secret? Mycroft.

Who helped ensure he didn't go to prison after he shot Magnussen? Mycroft.

Who would have had Sherlock shoot him so he could save John, instead during the Sherrinford incident? Mycroft. That incident proved how much Sherlock loved his horde. He'd rather shoot himself than harm even one of them.

Then, when Sherlock was four, he met his best friend, Victor Trevor, aka: Redbeard, and he added yet another piece of treasure to his horde.

Shortly before the incident in which Euros went crazy and killed his best friend before burning their mansion to the ground, Sherlock had just turned five, and he was playing in the woods around their mansion with Mycroft and Redbeard. They ditched poor Euros back at the funny gravestones, one of many times which would have severe repercussions, later. They started playing a game of hide and seek, with Mycroft being 'it' and Victor and Sherlock hiding. Sherlock apparently ran too far and hid too well, because it eventually got dark, and when it did, Sherlock couldn't recognize the way home and eventually got so hopelessly lost trying to find his way back, that he gave up and sat by a tree until his family found him. No doubt, they were looking for him. He knew they cared too much about him to let him stay out too long.

He was just starting to nod off, when a large, snarling dog jumped out of the bushes and started running at him. Sherlock ran as fast as he could, but the dog grabbed hold of his leg by his trousers and started shaking its' head to and fro viciously, snarling and growling. In his fear and panic, the adrenaline surging through his veins, five-year-old Sherlock let loose a roar that shook the trees. The next thing he knew, his entire body was put through excruciating pain. When it subsided and he opened his eyes, the dog didn't look so big, anymore. In fact, it had let go of him and was backing away, whimpering in fear with its' tail between its' legs. "GO AWAY!" Sherlock roared. And it was, quite literally, a roar. The dog ran off, yelping in terror. That, was when Sherlock realized he was a dragon, again.

He had still been a very young dragon at the time. Not a _baby_ , but certainly not an adult or adolescent. His body was only the size of a car, his tail was about the same length as his body. His armor was like steel, his teeth were like pocket knives, his claws were like steak knives, his wings were a strong breeze. Still, Sherlock was very happy to know that his magnificent form, the form of a dragon, was not all gone after all. He flapped his wings and roared happily, a tiny puff of fire escaping his lips. Sherlock climbed up to the top of the trees and spread his forty foot wings. He beat them in a pattern, letting his muscle-memory return to him, and took off. He flew for several hours, enjoying the freedom and _power_ of being a dragon for a while longer.

He eventually flew until he could see the lights from his home, again. At which point he was reminded of his horde, which only consisted of Mycroft and Redbeard at the time, and thought it best to return to them in human form. He didn't want to give his Mummy and Daddy a fright, after all. Nor did he want Mycroft and Redbeard to be afraid of him. Surely, if they knew what he was, Mycroft wouldn't want to teach him things anymore or play deductions with him, nor would Redbeard want to play pirates with him, anymore.

Sherlock flew off a distance so he wouldn't be seen, but kept track of where his home was, then spent the rest of the night until morning trying to figure out how to return to human form. He eventually succeeded, and returned to his frantic, sobbing parents… completely naked. His transformation ripped his clothes to shreds, and the pieces fell all over the forest throughout the night. They asked what happened to his clothes of course, and he told them he had to slip out of his trousers to escape a dog that attacked him (the bite mark on his leg clarified that story), and the dog ran off with his pants and underwear. They asked what happened to his shirt and jacket. Sherlock's response: a shrug. And that was the end of that story.

Sherlock would spend the rest of his childhood and adolescent years perfecting his intelligent mind and sneaking off somewhere at least once a week to slip out of his clothes and practice his transformations until he could go from human to dragon and back at will, and even only pull out certain dragon traits whenever he wished. He could pull out his dragon claws and/or teeth, make his tongue long and forked, make his eyes turn orange and glow, and even breathe fire, even in human form, by the time he was twelve. But of course, no one knew that but him. Sherlock never told a soul about his past life as Smaug, not even the two humans he considered to be his horde. Mycroft and… Victor.

Sherlock remembered losing Redbeard. Had his senses of smell been as sharp as they were now, had he been more practiced with his deduction skills, he could have tracked Victor down or perhaps solved Euros' riddle sooner, and saved his best friend from his dark fate at the bottom of that lonely well. But he didn't- correction, _couldn't_ save him. Sherlock remembered the sadness, the agony, the _rage_ that tormented his mind after losing a piece of his precious horde. Such was his despair, that he hardly cared when his childhood home was burned to the ground by a certain psychotic sister of his. Nor did he notice when his sister was taken away. In time, he would convince himself/forget that she ever existed. And to lessen his pain, he also convinced himself that Redbeard had been a dog, not a little boy. It would be decades before those memories were restored. Without Redbeard, he had no friends _to_ leave behind when they moved.

Sherlock spent many years, for the most part, the same way he had as a dragon… alone and friendless. He had ' _allies'_ , sure. ' _Acquaintances-who-called-themselves-his-friends-but-really-weren'ts'_ , too. He had Mycroft, of course. And he practiced all the harder with his dragon form to ensure that he would be able to save Mycroft if anything ever happened to him. Sherlock lost Redbeard, he would never part with another piece of his beloved horde, again!

When Sherlock was in junior high, he read about the death of a young champion swimmer named Carl Powers in the newspaper. Something wasn't right. _Where were his shoes?_ When the police ignored the fuss he made over it, he started investigating it himself, and… it was fun. He _enjoyed_ doing it! It would be twenty years before he would solve that case, but it was where he began. He picked up another case from the papers sometime later and… he actually solved it! And he enjoyed the crap out of himself, doing it. By the third case, the excitement and opportunity to use his incredible IQ to solve cases and put bad people in prison was starting to become an addiction. He started listening to police scanners, solving cases that would otherwise take _normal_ people weeks or months in a matter of days or even hours. Eventually, the police noticed and started coming to _him_. And so, by the time Sherlock was nineteen, the _Consulting Detective_ was born.

That, was how Sherlock met the next three humans who would be _worthy enough_ to join his horde. The first, he met on a case. Martha Hudson. He arranged her drug-dealing husband's execution and left her with all the money, but they kept in touch. She wouldn't officially make it onto his list of ' _treasure'_ until he moved into 221B with John about five or so years later. Only then, would she go from being an _ally_ , to being his good friend and landlady-not-housekeeper.

The second, was Greg Lestrade. The man was an idiot, a goldfish just like the rest of the populace, but solving cases with him over the years would make the man grow on Sherlock like a barnacle. Until eventually, Sherlock would consider the grey-haired detective to be part of his horde (definitely at the bottom of the list, but still on the list, if he were _forced_ to part with a piece of his horde, he'd choose to save Mycroft, John, or Molly over Lestrade any day).

The third, was Molly. Oh, Molly. Sweet, kind, beautiful, loyal, intelligent Molly Hooper, who despite how _horrible_ he was to her at times, never left his side. She grew on him a lot faster and harder than Lestrade ever did. She was always there. He always trusted her. And he only realized when he thought her life was on the line at the incident at Sherrinford, that he was pretty sure he was as in love with her as she was with him. But between the cold nature the Holmes siblings shared and his dragon side, it made understanding others' feelings difficult for Sherlock, and showing his own feelings in the ' _appropriate'_ way even harder. He loved her. He wouldn't show it until he knew how, but he loved her. Even before he figured out he loved her, Sherlock considered her to be one of his most trusted allies, and later friends. She was one of the most precious pieces of his horde, tying with John and Mycroft.

Then, Sherlock's life was forever changed for the better the day he met one of the three most precious pieces of his horde. A short army doctor, recently retired from Afghanistan, with a psychological limp and a talent for _not_ getting on Sherlock's nerves (despite being a goldfish) and putting up with and just rolling with Sherlock and all the craziness that came with him. His name was John Haymitch Watson. Loyal, tough, heart-of-gold, blog-writing John Watson. The first person Sherlock would consider to be a ' _friend_ ' since he lost Redbeard all those years ago. John taught Sherlock more about feelings than his family growing up ever did. More about how to treat other people. John opened Sherlock up like a dusty old book, and he was all the better off because of him. They went on so many adventures together, they had such fun! By the end of their first case together, Sherlock considered John to be a part of his horde. The fastest to make it onto the list, yet.

After the first fiasco with Moriarty and the Reichenbach fall, Sherlock faked his death and disappeared for a while, leaving and trusting Mycroft to protect the rest of his horde. Fighting as hard as he could, using his brain (and occasionally his teeth, fire, and claws, when he was sure there would be no photos, video footage, or witnesses to tell the tale) to destroy the rest of Moriarty's criminal network. Not even Mycroft knew of the sheer amount of blood on Sherlock's hands from those two years. You could surely fill a lake with it and go for a swim.

And when the right people were dead and Sherlock was sure the network was gone for good (apparently, he'd been _wrong_ , as his current predicament proved), his brother bailed him out of Russia, and he returned. Back to England, back to London, back to his horde. John had moved on with his life, as expected. And not quite as expected, he'd been angry with Sherlock. Angry for faking his death, angry for leaving. In time, Sherlock would understand why. Did he drop the bomb on dear John while he was trying to propose to Mary? Yes, he did. Did he deserve to get punched? Absolutely. Did John eventually forgive him? Of course he did. A nudge was needed, sure, in the form of a little ' _bomb-about-to-go-off-we're-about-to-die'_ prank, but Sherlock was eventually forgiven.

Eventually, John and Mary got married with Sherlock as John's best man. He'd been so honored! How foolish he'd been to worry that his times with his dear friend were at an end. On the night of the wedding, Sherlock officially added Mary to his horde. How rich he was!

Then, little Rosie came along! How wonderful! Yet another addition to his horde! Sherlock was on cloud nine!

Then… she was gone. Mary threw herself in front of him, took the hit meant for him, and died in her husband's arms. Sherlock had never been more low. It was like losing Redbeard all over again. To top it off, John distanced himself from Sherlock, the one person who knew John best, the one person who could help John, and help John he did. It was all he could do, it was what Mary wanted: he saved John Watson. He went back to drugs and placed his life on the line to do it, but he did it. And just like that, everything was okay again for awhile.

Then Sherrinford happened… and Sherlock was reminded yet again of how precious his horde was when both his best friend, John, and his brother, Mycroft, were nearly killed by his sister, Euros. Then there was _that phone call_ with Molly. How was he to know that his sister was bluffing about the bomb? He'd been so terrified. So terrified that he'd lose her. It was only when she made him say, " _I love you"_ , that he realized it was true. He was in love with Molly Hooper. When she said it back, he could hear it in her words, he could see it on her beautiful face through her tears, she meant it. Every word of it. But the way he'd treated her over the years, the number of times he'd hurt her before, made her _cry_ over the phone. She _cried_. Without meaning to, that phone call hurt her, yet again. And his sister had known it would. And that, made Sherlock mad. _Really_ mad. So mad that he let the dragon loose for just a moment and destroyed the coffin that had served as Euros' little clue. He smashed it, he kicked it, and he roared with rage. And when his rage was over, he leaned against the wall and just wanted it all to end. He got lucky. John, Mycroft, and even Euros didn't see his eyes flashing between icy blue and glowing amber, nor his teeth turning into fangs.

When Euros asked him to shoot John or Mycroft, Sherlock knew he wouldn't do it as soon as he realized what the challenge was. After losing Redbeard and Mary, he knew, his heart couldn't take losing another piece of his horde. And so, he put the gun to his own head… only to be stopped by Euros. He woke up in his childhood home, solved the case that should have been solved long ago, and realized that while he'd never completely forgive Euros for her actions both in his youth and at that godforsaken prison and certainly wouldn't forget what she'd done, he did still love her. He didn't lose any of his horde that day… he gained a piece, instead.

The experience brought the truth of his past to light, and the memory of the two precious pieces of his horde he had lost, Mary and Victor ' _Redbeard'_ Trevor, made him all the more certain that even if it was at the cost of his own life, even if he had to go dragon in front of them, even if he had to sell his soul to the devil himself, he was _never_ going to part with a piece of his horde, again!

Sherlock opened his eyes at the sound of the door to his cell opening. He looked up, careful to keep any form of alarm off of his face as Moriarty strolled into Sherlock's cell like he owned the place (which technically, Sherlock supposed he did). Behind him, entered six henchmen, four armed with guns and two dragging a rolling table with a TV on top of it.

 _What are you up to, Moriarty?_ Sherlock wondered.

"Tsk tsk tsk, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock… I really didn't want this to be difficult."

"You think I'm going to give you secrets capable of killing thousands of people?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. Talking hurt, due to his split lip. But that wasn't going to stop him.

"No. You've shown time and time again. You're smart and strong enough to be interesting, but your one downfall, Sherlock…"

The men behind the criminal finally turned on the TV. Sherlock froze, staring at the screen in horror.

"Is your heart."

John. Mycroft. Molly. John. Mycroft. Molly. _John! Mycroft! Molly!_

All three of them were handcuffed on their knees with guns pointed at their heads. Molly looked so terrified! Mycroft looked like he was trying to look strong. John looked like he was struggling to sit up. He had a black eye and a split lip. They hadn't taken him without a fight.

"So, let's see… either you tell me what I need to know by morning or… ooh, there are so many things I could make you watch me do to them!"

"D-don't you fucking _dare_." Sherlock sputtered, looking away. His heart was racing. There was an emotion gripping his soul. One that had grown familiar. He felt it every time one of his horde was at risk. He felt it the night Moriarty strapped that bomb to John. He felt it when those American dogs beat up Mrs. Hudson. He felt it the day he'd jumped off St. Barts to save John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. The emotion… was _fear_.

The dragon stirred.

Moriarty walked over to Sherlock and grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look at the screen.

"Taaaaalk." Moriarty said in a sing-song voice.

" _Sherlock! Forget about us! Don't tell him anything!"_ John said on the other side of the screen, earning him a lick right to the gut from the armed henchmen on the other side of the screen. John doubled over.

Sherlock wanted to. He'd spill anything. He'd damn all of Britain if it meant saving them. But the truth was, he didn't know. He'd put them under the impression that he had the information they were looking for to allow the person who _did_ know to escape. He was under protection in the United States, by now.

"Let's see… what could I do to the eldest Holmes brother?"

"Stop it."

"I read a book about torture methods, recently. Apparently drowning isn't the best way to go. How about I dunk your _dear_ brother's fat head into a bucket of ice water?"

"Shut up."

"And there's a way to really drag it out, you know. Let him come up for air as he starts to struggle, then dunk him under again as he's inhaling to take a breath. Men have been driven _insane_ before they finally die, that way."

"Mycroft… _no_. Shut _up!_ "

"How about I take your little pathologist to bed with me? I didn't date her long enough to _fuck_ her, but she looks like she could be good enough to ride a few times before she finally gives out."

"You touch a freaking _hair_ on Molly, I swear to whatever God is listening, I will fucking _kill you!_ " Sherlock snarled.

"Oooh, he's threatening me. Now we're getting somewhere! So, I fuck your sweet little pathologist until she breaks in front of you, I drown your brother, what _will_ I do to _dear_ Johnny boy?"

"You're not going to touch any of them! You understand?"

"Hmm… ooh, how about I turn his _psychological_ limp into a _real_ limp?"

" _Sherlock! We'll be fine!"_ John yelled. A gun hit him in the side of the head.

"Ooh, Johnny boy's being awfully talkative, isn't he? How about… we break his leg a different way every time you refuse to talk… then when there's no more ways to break it, we'll just put a bullet right through his head."

"John! I swear, I won't let him!"

" _No, Sherlock. You have to get yourself out! Don't worry about us!"_

"Johnny boy _is_ being talkative. Do the Iceman and sweet little Molly have anything to say?"

" _Say something!"_ One of the henchmen on the other side of the screen barked, hitting Mycroft on the back of the head.

Mycroft hesitated, then said, " _Brother mine, you know what you have to do. You tell him what he wants to know… and he can kill anyone else he wants. Three lives aren't worth it. Tell Mummy and Daddy I care about them. And I need you to know… that I always cared about you, too."_

That was the closest thing to 'I love you' Mycroft had ever said. Sherlock knew that was what he meant, but he'd never actually say those exact words.

As soon as Mycroft was done, another man grabbed Molly by the throat. " _How bout' you, sweetheart, you got anything to say to Mr. Holmes?"_ He said, uncomfortably close to her face and licking his lips.

The emotion gripping his heart, fear… was being drowned out by something else, entirely.

 _Rage_.

The dragon inside him was _seething_. They'd beat up John, hit Mycroft, and now this creep was _touching_ Molly! And the threats Moriarty was making, Sherlock knew he was _dead_ serious. Sherlock could feel the claws on his hands and feet coming out, and his teeth were changing ever so slightly.

" _Sh-Sherlock,"_ She said, " _I'm sorry. And… I love you._ "

That was when Sherlock realized he was crying.

"Go on, Sherlock, do you have anything you want to say to them?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock hesitated. He wanted to say he could save them. He wanted to say it was going to be okay. But was it? He didn't even know where they were.

 _But you can find out._ _Someone gets a question asked of them by a dragon, they tend to be a bit more talkative._

Could he get there in time?

 _You know how fast you can fly when you need to._

Was there anything he could say to get Moriarty to let them go?

 _No. You don't have the information he wants, and he would kill them anyway, even if you did._

What if they hated him for what he was?

 _If they're dead, it won't matter. You save them, they live. You don't, they die. If the hate you, you disappear. It's just that simple. They're your horde. They matter above all else. Even your own life. Remember what you promised Mary. Save John Watson. He's got a little girl he has to take care of. Remember Mycroft. Teaching you deductions, helping you walk, always looking after you. Remember Molly, never leaving your side._

 _Save them._

 _Protect what's yours._

 _You know you can._

 _Burn anyone and everything that tries to stop you._

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "John, Mycroft, Molly, none of you are going to die. John, they're not going to touch your leg. Mycroft, they're not going to drown you. Molly, they're not going to lay a _finger_ on you. I won't let them." And for good measure, just in case, he gathered all of his courage and added, "Molly, I love you!"

"We'll see about that." Moriarty said.

" _Sherlock-"_ Molly started to say, but they shut the TV off.

Sherlock stared at the black screen for a few seconds. Even through the monitor, Sherlock could see the fear in her eyes. They were all scared. And Sherlock didn't like that one bit. Sherlock chuckled to himself. Then, he was laughing.

"What's so funny?" Jim asked.

"Sorry. It's just… _So_ many people are about to die, it's funny. And you… I thought you were smart, Jim. I thought you were _clever_. But no, you're not. Because you've gone and done something everyone knows _not_ to do. So you _must_ be stupid!"

"And what's that?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, dear Jim," Sherlock closed his eyes, "hasn't anyone ever told you…" When Sherlock opened his eyes again, his pupils were slits. And the color had gone from icy blue, to flaming orange. " **Never steal from a dragon."**

* * *

 **Well, that was my first attempt at Dragonlock! What did you guys think?! This story isn't going to be very long. I estimate only three chapters, though it MIGHT end up four or five.  
** **And a word of warning, shit's gonna go DOWN in the next chapter.  
** **But I shall only update if I get REVIEWS!**

 **Review at once  
if ****convenient** **.**  
 **If** **inconvenient** **,  
review anyway.**

 **aa14**


	2. II: I am fire! I am death!

_Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, dear Jim," Sherlock closed his eyes, "hasn't anyone ever told you…" When Sherlock opened his eyes again, his pupils were slits. And the color had gone from icy blue, to flaming orange._ " _ **Never steal from a dragon."**_

That was when Sherlock snapped the handcuffs around his wrists as easily as snapping a twig. He jumped up out of his chair and raked his claws across one man's face, then whirled around to sink his sharp white fangs into a henchmen's throat.

The man with the scratched face fell back on the floor screaming and clutching his profusely bleeding eye socket, where Sherlock had just clawed his eye out.

Everyone, including Jim Moriarty, jumped back with surprise and alarm. Someone shouted "What the fuck?!"

The man in Sherlock's jaws let loose a strangled scream that was quickly cut off as Sherlock's jaws crushed his windpipe, and the body went limp. Sherlock effortlessly threw the corpse at the TV like a sack of apples with his teeth, and it broke the television on impact.

Sherlock turned and made direct eye contact with Moriarty, licking the blood from his lips with a long, forked tongue, and growled as he transformed a little more. He grew about six inches in height and his body got a little broader. Some horns protruded from his skull, jaw, and cheekbones. His teeth got even longer, and his fingernails were long claws. Scattered scales started appearing all over his skin, and he could feel spines growing out of his back. Smoke started rising from his skin, a side effect of his transformation, and his chest was glowing, holding his fire. The dragon did that sometimes, when he was angry.

Partially-transformed Sherlock looked like a demon fresh out of hell. And at that moment, he was angry enough to be mistaken for one.

Sherlock snarled at the consulting criminal.

"What the hell?" Moriarty murmured. His eyes wide with shock.

Sherlock exhaled from his mouth, a plume of smoke escaping his lips as he did so. " **Where.** _ **Are**_ **. They?"** Sherlock asked dangerously. His usual baritone getting deeper and louder, his teeth getting longer and sharper.

One henchman opened fire and the bullet hit Sherlock's shoulder. It didn't penetrate through the thick scales appearing all over his body, though. In fact, it dented and fell harmlessly to the ground with a metallic ' _plink'_. But it still stung like hell, and was sure to leave a bruise. Sherlock rounded on the man and hissed. Others opened fire, and one man grabbed Moriarty by the arm and half-dragged him out the door and slamming it shut behind them. Sherlock heard it lock, and he heard them running down the hall. That _really_ made him mad.

Sherlock roared so loud, it shook the entire building and transformed further to the point that he was on all fours, his arms had turned into wings, he had a tail, and he was now roughly the same size he was the night he was a little boy lost in the woods, defending himself from the dog attack. Sherlock slapped two men with his tail so hard they were slammed against the wall and were knocked unconscious. Cracks appeared in the wall on impact. The last one standing pulled out a rifle and aimed it at him. Sherlock grabbed the man by the arm with his teeth. The man screamed. He felt bones break, and he threw the man against the wall.

All henchmen taken care of, Sherlock charged at the steel door and knocked it down like it was nothing. He paused only long enough to spot Moriarty and the last guard bolting halfway down the hall. The consulting criminal glanced back over his shoulder and cursed loudly, "Oh, _shit!_ " Sherlock roared and took off down the hall after them.

The world's fastest human is the Olympic Champion, Usain Bolt. His top speed is only twenty eight miles per hour. And most humans (Jim included) were _much_ slower than that. In this form, Sherlock's top ground speed was between thirty five and forty miles per hour. Flying, Sherlock could get over one hundred miles per hour when in a hurry. He had no trouble catching up to them.

They turned around a corner. Sherlock's claws skidded against the tile floor as he tried to turn, then he was after them, again. They had stopped at the end of the hallway and the guard was frantically pushing the button on an elevator. When Moriarty saw Sherlock coming, he didn't hesitate in bolting for the stairs, rather than waiting for the elevator. The guard wasn't as smart.

The smarter thing for Sherlock to do would have been to ignore the guard and go after Moriarty, but Sherlock was so furious, he didn't care. He pounced on the terrified human and sank his teeth into his neck, shaking the body to and fro, the warm blood filling his mouth and fueling his fire. The man screamed, and Sherlock drank in his fear like fine wine. When the corpse went limp at last, Sherlock threw it on the ground hard enough to crack the floor, then smashed the door of the staircase down in time to see Moriarty slamming the door of the floor above him shut.

Sherlock roared with rage and forced his body through the doorway before jumping up, gripping the next story with his claws, and jumping up onto the next floor in seconds. Sherlock slammed the door down and took off after Moriarty, again.

Moriarty was at the end of the hall, already. He threw the door at the end of the hall open and ran out before slamming it behind him. Sherlock raced down the hall, but with the adrenaline and bloodlust pounding through his veins and the rage tormenting his heart and soul, Sherlock had continued to transform further with every step he took. But he'd been so _angry_ , he hadn't noticed until he found himself hopelessly _stuck_. Sherlock roared in rage and frustration, a plume of flame and smoke billowing from his mouth. His body was outgrowing the space he was in, and he could not move until the ceiling above him finally gave. And the floor above that, and the floor above that, and the floor above that… followed by the entire side of the building.

There were screams of surprise and terror as Sherlock, a full grown and _very_ angry dragon exploded out of the side of the structure and out into the night, taking out half of the building. Bits of rubble and debris went everywhere, and the dust hid the lower half of Sherlock's gigantic body from view.

Sherlock spread out his wings as far as he could and flapped them three times. He roared with rage and pride, stretching his long neck up as high as he could and raising his head to the sky.

 _Look at me, you pigs!_ He thought with the same vanity as his previous life. _Look and behold by magnificence compared to you, you human insects! You criminals! You COWARDS!_

Sherlock looked down. Getting a much better view of his surroundings, the facility was on a small island, just as he had known it had been. From where he was, he could see the shoreline on all sides. He'd come out of one of the largest buildings. The others were of similar size or smaller, with paved roads and asphalt in between them. There were cars everywhere, about a dozen boats at the docks, and a small airport, where Sherlock could see several small planes.

At his feet, there were already many automatic weapons trained on him.

Sherlock did not give a fuck.

Sherlock had gone from being tall for a human, standing at six feet, to being larger than two commercial jumbo jets. Bullets were nothing more than soft drizzle to him. They didn't even _dent_ his hide, which was now so thick and strong that it wouldn't bruise his human form.

Sherlock dropped back down onto all fours and began to slink along relatively close to the ground, between the buildings, scanning the crowds for a certain someone. Ignoring the screams of men and women and the pathetic bullets that rained up upon his hide, but keeping his second clear eyelid closed to protect his large, delicate eyes, just in case.

" **Ohhh, Jim…"** Sherlock called out to his foe, stepping on a car with his front talons and crushing it. " **Dear Jim… you have stolen something from me, Jim. Something** _ **preeeccccioussssss**_ **."**

Sherlock stopped and raised himself to his full height.

" **If you hurt them Jim, Dear Jim, I will knock you, Criminal King, off of your throne. I will** _ **devour**_ **your people like a wolf among sheep."**

Sherlock could smell the _general_ direction Moriarty was in, even though he hadn't spotted him yet. At a familiar sound, Sherlock's head snapped around to the opposite direction. Oh, look. They were bringing out a missile launcher. What good was that going to do? All it was doing was making noise, which Sherlock found annoying. Growling, he gathered all the heat inside his chest, making between the scales of his chest and neck glow a bright orange, before releasing a huge burst of flames from his jaws. The flames incinerated some, immediately. Others screamed as they were burnt to death. Others were left rolling on the ground in agony, trying in vain to quench the flames licking hungrily at their clothes, hair, and flesh. And that was the people. The buildings and cars it touched were caught in the inferno, too. And Sherlock watched it burn with no hint of remorse. A small part of him had missed the glorious chaos.

Sherlock hopped up on top of a building, flapping his wings a few timed for balance. " **I kill where I wish.** _ **When**_ **I wish."** Sherlock said, hs tone getting louder and more threatening. " **What do you think is different about you, Moriarty? What do you think will stop me from doing the same to you?"**

Sherlock turned back to the direction he could smell Moriarty's scent coming from. It was a disgusting mix of just a little bit too much men's cologne, human flesh and blood, anti-dandruff shampoo and conditioner, and a certain musk that made Sherlock want to sink his teeth into something. Or, more accurately, _someone_.

" **I can** _ **ssssmellllll**_ **you, Moooriaaartyyy. I can** _ **sense**_ **your fear. I can** _ **hear**_ **your breath. I can** _ **feel**_ **your air."** Sherlock called, continuing his search. He'd already determined that John, Mycroft, and Molly were _not_ nearby. He couldn't smell them anywhere, nor could he smell their scent being carried on anyone's clothing who may have come into contact with them.

Yet another band of criminals tried shooting him with machine guns. These guns were bigger. Sherlock had to give them an _A+_ for effort. But he chuckled dangerously, low in his throat, and swept them away with his long, powerful, prehensile tail.

" **My armor… is** _ **steel**_ **."** Sherlock said, spreading his huge wings and gliding over to another part of the facility and looking around for Moriarty. His claws gripped the roof of another building as he landed on top of it. " **No blade nor bullet can pierce me!"**

Sherlock grinned as his huge orange eyes finally locked upon his prey, running towards one of the buildings. Sherlock quickly set said building on fire, and all of the other buildings around Moriarty except the one he was standing on. The criminal stopped in his tracks.

" **Turn around and look at me when I speak to you, Moriarty!"** Sherlock barked, raising himself up to his full height and trying to look intimidating, which wasn't difficult.  
The Consulting Criminal turned around. This was the first time Sherlock had ever seen real _fear_ on Moriarty's face. And Sherlock _loved_ it! James Moriarty was shaking his head to and fro, trying in vain to convince himself that what he was seeing wasn't real. Finally, he began to laugh.

" **You dare laugh?"** Sherlock growled.

"You- you're not ordinary. You're not ordinary. You're a- y-you're a-"

" **Look at you. The once proud, arrogant James Moriarty, reduced to a fearful, trembling mess. I** _ **would**_ **feel sorry for you… but I can't. I cannot feel sorry for** _ **thieves**_ **who steal from my horde! I will not part with a** _ **single**_ **piece of it! I'll never lose one, again!"** Sherlock said, raising his voice even louder.

Sherlock stepped off of the building he'd been standing on as easily as stepping down from the stairs of Baker Street.

" **Thieves** _**should**_ **feel fear when they steal from me."** Sherlock said. " **My teeth are swords! My claws are spears! My wings… are a** _ **hurricane!**_ " Sherlock bellowed, and he beat his wings once so hard, that the wind alone from them knocked Moriarty off of his feet. Sherlock rushed forwards and slammed his claws down at his enemy, keeping him pinned, then he looked down and leaned in so that his snout not even ten feet from Moriarty, who was making no attempts to struggle against Sherlock's hold on him.

" **Where…** _ **are**_ … **they?"** Sherlock asked for the second time that night. His breath was blowing Moriarty's black locks against his face.

"YOU! CREATURE!"

Sherlock looked up to the source of the voice to see that Moriarty's forces were making a last stand.

"RELEASE HIM!" The commander barked.

" **Must you raise your voice? I can hear you just fine."** Sherlock snarled, annoyed at being interrupted, yet again.

"Release him." The commander said again, not raising his voice.

" **And why on Earth would I do that?"** Sherlock asked, his tail lashing in annoyance.

"Release him or we will open fire." The man said.

" **And how well has that worked for you so far?"**

The man said nothing.

" **What is your name, servant of a thief?"** Sherlock asked.

"I am Sebastian Moran. Former british military sniper. Now, I am _his_ bodyguard and personal assassin. Listen, I can get the information you want, just let him go."

Sherlock chuckled. He knew a lie when he saw one.

" **You are less than a thief. You are a servant of one. And you are a** _ **liar**_ **."** Sherlock snarled.

"I don't lie. Let him go, Sherlock Holmes, and I will tell you where Dr. Watson, Dr. Hooper, and your brother are."

Sherlock hissed. " _ **I**_ **think… you want me to let him go, so you can fire even bigger rounds at me without running the risk of hurting your** _ **precious**_ **employer."** Sherlock said.

The sniper said nothing.

" **Tell me, Sniper, Servant of a thief, what is it like to be used? To spend day and night living as a means to an end? This Coward, Moriarty, wages your life, and he finds it worth…** _ **nothing**_ **."** Sherlock said.

"Now who's lying?" The sniper asked, pointing his sniper rifle at Sherlock. Sherlock could tell he was getting under the man's skin, and he was rather pleased with himself for that.

" **What does he pay you? What does he promise you? A share of his stolen and blackmailed goods? A portion of the earnings of his illegal work, perhaps? Or are you just brainwashed? Tell me, Sniper, are you paid enough to face me?"** Sherlock asked, gathering the heat in his chest. The only one to react was the Sniper. He dove out of the way just in time. The others were swallowed by the flames.

" **I'm impressed, Sniper. But your fast reflexes won't save him. Only my information will. Where.** _ **Are**_ **. They?"** Sherlock demanded with a growl.

Neither said anything. Sherlock growled. If they wouldn't talk, he'd just keep killing until someone did. He had no problem with that. He started to inhale for another breath of fire, when the Sniper shouted, "FACILITY M!"

Sherlock stopped, and let him speak.

"Shut up, Moran!" Moriarty barked.

" **You shut up!"** Sherlock barked, looking down at Moriarty. The criminal immediately shut his mouth, much to Sherlock's delight. Sherlock looked up at Moran. " **Continue."** He ordered.

Moran gulped.

"L-look, our facilities are labeled by letter. We're at L right now. They're at M. Just an island over. You can see the lights of the facility from here." He said, pointing.

Sherlock looked. There were definitely lights out in the distance. Maybe a few miles away. He could be there in a minute. But was it an island at all? It could easily be a boat he was looking at. He was pretty sure it was an island.

Sherlock growled and turned back to Moran. " **If you are lying, I am coming back to kill you in the slowest, most painful way I can think of. But for now, I'll just finish off your boss."** Sherlock growled. He raised his claws to strike, but Moran yelled again.

"WAIT! I DON'T THINK YOU HAVE TIME TO!"

Sherlock paused. " **What the hell are you talking about?"**

"Don't you know?" Moran laughed. "Foolish dragon! The order's been given!"

" **Order?! What order?!"** Sherlock asked, alarmed. But in his heart, he knew exactly what Moran was about to say.

" _The_ order. The men were told to be creative. Your friend John must be in agony. I bet you can barely tell it's a leg, by now. And your Brother's struggling to breathe with all that water flooding his lungs. And I sure wish I was there to see the show the men are putting on right now with your sweet little-"

" **MOLLY!"** Sherlock roared.

He didn't care if Moriarty lived or died. He didn't care about _anything_. All he cared about was his horde. What the sniper said _had_ to be false, it had to!

Sherlock spread his wings and leapt into the sky. His wings were beating frantically in the direction of the island his treasure was on. He didn't think he'd ever flown so fast.

 _John. Mycroft. Molly. John. Mycroft. Molly. John! Mycroft! Molly! JOHN! MYCROFT! MOLLY!_

Their faces, their voices, things he remembered doing with them, were flashing before his eyes and the mere thought of _one_ of them getting hurt was breaking his heart more and more by the second.

Meeting John for the first time.

 _Mike Stamford walks into the lab at St. Barts with an old friend recently retired from military service in Afghanistan with a psychological limp._

" _Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock requests, not looking away from what he's doing._

" _Sorry. It's in my coat." Mike says._

" _Here. Use mine."The soldier says._

" _Oh. Thank you."_

" _This is an old friend of mine. John Watson." Mike says, introducing his friend._

" _Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asks._

Sherlock feels the wind stinging his eyes, but he doesn't think that's what's causing the tears. He can't stop remembering, and his heart is breaking, and it _hurts!_

Molly. Sherlock remembers the last time he saw her before faking his death on the roof of St. Barts.

" _I think I'm going to die, Molly."_

" _What do you need?"_

" _You."_

Mycroft. Smoking and talking with Mycroft outside of their parents' house.

" _A dragon slayer? Is that what you think of me?"_

" _No. It's what you think of yourself."_

 _Mummy pops out of the house at the worst possible moment. "Are you two smoking?"_

 _Mycroft: "No!"_

 _Sherlock: "ItwasMycroft!"_

Figuring out that it was John who shot the Cabbie to save Sherlock at the end of 'A Study in Pink'.

" _Are you alright?"_

" _Yes. Of course I'm alright."_

" _You have just killed a man."_

" _Yes… that's true… But he wasn't a very nice man."_

" _No. He wasn't, was he?"_

" _No. And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."_

 _Sherlock laughs, in spite of himself. "That's true. He was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here."_

 _John laughs, too. "Stop it. We can't giggle. It's a crime scene. Stop it."_

Realizing he was in love with Molly during the incident at Sherrinford.

" _Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words."_

" _What words?"_

"'I love you'."

 _She almost hangs up right there._

" _Molly! No! Please don't hang up!"_

" _Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?"_

" _Please. Just… say those words for me."_

" _Don't make me do this… I can't say it, I can't say that to you."_

" _Of course you can. Why can't you?"_

 _And the panic rises in his chest because supposedly, if she doesn't say it, she'll die! And he just can't lose her! He can't lose her!_

" _You know why."_

" _No. I don't know why."_

 _She sighs with genuine sadness. He knows he's hurting her, but it's the only way to save her!_

" _Please just say it." He begs._

" _I can't."_

" _Why?"_

" _Because it's true. It's_ true _, Sherlock. It's always been true."_

" _If it's true, then say it."_

" _Only if you say it, first."_

 _It's ridiculous, but after a moment's hesitation, he complies._

" _I love you." The first time is said robotically. The words leave his lips, but with no emotion. But a powerful emotion grips his heart once it's out, and he says it again… realizing it's true. "I love you."_

 _Tears in her eyes, she whispers into the phone._

" _I love you."_

Sherlock remembers Mycroft visiting him. He'd never say it, but most of the time, he was happy to see his big brother.

" _We both thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on… Until we met_ other children _." Mycroft says, shifting where he's sitting in John's chair._

" _Oh, yes. That was a mistake."_

" _Gastly. What_ were _we thinking of?"_

" _Probably along the lines of trying to make friends."_

" _Oh yes…_ friends." _Mycroft says without hiding his distaste for the term._

John yelling at Sherlock for keeping body parts in the fridge.

Playing with Mycroft as a boy.

Greeting Molly in the lab.

John writing in his stupid blog.

Mycroft helping Sherlock fake his death.

The feeling of Molly's soft skin on his lips as he kissed her cheek.

All those fun cases with John!

Mycroft offering to sacrifice himself at Sherrinford.

Teaming up with Molly that one time for a case.

The memories keep flashing before his eyes, and they won't stop! Sherlock remembers the last time he saw John.

 _John is sitting in his chair, reading the paper. Sherlock had just finished his morning tea. He puts on his coat and scarf and starts to head out the door._

" _Where are you going?" John asked._

" _Barts. Have something to check up on." Sherlock says. And he's not technically lying. He's actually going to conduct his experiment there as an excuse to see Molly._

" _Okay. Have fun, then." John says, going back to his paper._

 _Sherlock heads out and hails a cab._

Sherlock remembers the last time he saw Mycroft.

 _Mycroft had visited him the day before Sherlock's abduction. They played deductions and had tea before Mycroft had to dash for a meeting with the Queen._

 _You idiot!_ Sherlock thought as he flew. _You let him leave without a word! Why didn't you say… Just once… 'I'm happy to see you! I love you, brother mine!'_

Sherlock remembered the last time he saw Molly.

 _He was walking out of the morgue when he stopped._ Do something for her, you moron! _He said to himself._

 _He turned back around._

" _Erm… Molly?"_

 _She looked at him in surprise. "Sherlock?"_

" _Uh, I was wondering… if you'd like to have coffee. With me. Maybe… tomorrow afternoon. I had some autopsy reports I wanted to look over with you."_

 _She looked at him like he had tarantulas crawling out of his ears._

" _Uh… yeah. Yeah! Yes. I'd- I'd love to. Have coffee. With you. Tomorrow."_

 _He'd been so excited, he forgotten his coat and scarf. He'd taken ten steps out the front door of the hospital when he'd felt the chill of the crisp London air and realized that he'd left his coat and scarf in the morgue. But as he was turning around to go back inside to fetch them, he felt a gun on his back._

 _It was one of Moriarty's men, coming to take him away from his precious horde._

Sherlock was suddenly filled with rage at the thought of _who_ had put his beloved blogger, brother, and pathologist in such danger.

The lights of the facility were getting closer, and Sherlock could now see each individual building, as well as many tiny figures milling about. At the sight of his target, Sherlock blinked the tears out of his eyes, shook his head, and snarled.

" **I am fire… "**

They would pay. Everyone who hurt them. Everyone who _tried_ to hurt them. They would _all_ pay!

" **I am** _ **death!**_ "

* * *

 _I hope you guys liked it! Sorry it wasn't as long as the last chapter. And don't worry! John, Mycroft, and Molly are going to be okay!_  
 _Or are they?_  
 _Muahahaha!_  
 _Either way, Sherlock is PISSED!_  
 _Please leave Reviews! They are fuel for writers!_

 _-aa14_


	3. III: OH, NO YOU DON'T!

_I'm sorry, Sherlock._ Mycroft Holmes thought. What else was there to think?

One of the reasons Mycroft and Sherlock acted coldly towards one another was so that one could never be used as leverage against the other. Perhaps, with the recent events with Euros and all, Mycroft had acted like he cared a little too much. Or Maybe it was Sherlock. Either way, Moriarty had seen through the act, and now here Mycroft was, on his knees with John and Molly, waiting to be tortured, raped (in Molly's case), and murdered before his brother's eyes.

Sherlock was going to break. He'd break if he lost so much as _one_ of them, Mycroft knew. But he was going to lose all three of them. And there was nothing Mycroft could do about it.

What was going through Sherlock's head at that moment? Sherlock had always been far more emotional than he. Surely the anger and despair must be absolutely overwhelming.

Even through the TV monitor, Mycroft had seen the terror and worry in his brother's eyes when he'd found out that Moriarty had kidnapped the three of them. A look that had morphed into a dark mix of pure hate and rage as Moriarty started making threats.

 _I told you not to get attached, little brother._ Mycroft thought. _But whether I like it or not, you did. Now I have to catch your heart, before it falls and shatters._

The thought of his own death was fleeting. Mycroft was scared, yes. But he cared more about what effect his death would have on his little brother than finding out what awaited on the other side. Truthfully, Mycroft didn't care that much about it at all. Death was as much a part of life as eating or drinking. And Mycroft had lived a pretty good life, up to that point. He'd lived, he'd laughed, and he'd loved. Wasn't that all anyone wanted out of life?

The question that was currently bothering Mycroft was whether or not he could do anything to save Dr. Watson or Dr. Hooper. If one, just _one_ of them could be saved and could get back to Sherlock, maybe his brother would be okay. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would be able to move on and be happy. That was all Mycroft wanted. He wanted his little brother to be happy. Could he bribe the guards for their lives? Or could he make a plan so they could escape? No. Escape wouldn't work. They had bags over their heads the whole way down to this awful place. But the sounds around them on the way down had let Mycroft know along the lines of what they were dealing with, and he had the directions back to helicopter that had brought them there memorized.

The problem was, _Mycroft_ had it memorized. Mycroft was the only one of the three of them with intelligence and memory impressive enough to have done so. Mycroft's first idea was to cause some large distraction to allow John and Molly to escape. But if they got lost and got caught, what good would it do?

Mycroft was distracted from his thoughts by a man entering the room.

"Hey." One of the men already in the room greeted him.

"Oi. Come on. We're doing it."

"Doin' it? You mean killin' off these three? Why? Boss hasn't called."

"That's just it. Communications at Facility L are down. And you know what the Boss said. If communications at Facility L go down, we are to initiate the Boss's orders for this lot, immediately."

A particularly creepy looking group of five men off in one corner were eyeballing Molly like a pack of starved dogs looking at a piece of fresh meat.

"Boss isn't here." One of them chuckled. "That means that little thing's all ours until she cracks."

Mycroft did not miss the shudder that went through Miss Hooper's body.

God, no. This was something Mycroft hadn't planned for. They were going to start early. Right now!

Two men grabbed Mycroft under the arms and hauled him to his feet. Mycroft tried to jerk himself out of their grip, and stomped on one of their toes, effectively getting the man to let go of him. But a pistol aimed at Mycroft's face stopped his resistance in his tracks. John Watson's too, who had been fighting just as hard as he.

Poor Molly Hooper had five disgusting perverts on her. Two had her by the arms, one had her around the middle, and the other two were following as they dragged the terrified, screaming pathologist out of the room.

Molly Hooper was not scared easily, but she was terrified. That showed just how bad their situation was. Mycroft had a distinct memory of kidnapping her when she had first begun spending more time with Sherlock, just as he had done with John, Lestrade, Mrs. Huston, and everyone else close to Sherlock. Mycroft also had a distinct memory of Molly stabbing him with the key to her flat. He still had a scar to prove it.

Mycroft was grabbed roughly by the shoulder and led out of the room with John Watson close behind. Mycroft could hear Molly yelling and loud laughter somewhere down the hall as the men took her somewhere to rape her. All of those stupid men were going to die.

Mycroft knew his brother too well. And whether the three of them lived or died, every single one of these men were already dead with one foot in the grave. They just hadn't figured that out, yet.

 _Mycroft had an attempt on his life, once. It was about a year or so before Sherlock met John. A bodyguard had shoved Mycroft aside in the nick of time so the bullet missed Mycroft's skull and clipped him on the shoulder, instead. But then, the assassin had shot Mycroft's bodyguard with his last bullet and had tried to kill Mycroft with his bare hands. But luckily, hearing guards coming, the attacker gave up and escaped, leaving Mycroft badly injured, but still alive._

 _Mycroft was at St. Barts hospital after the attack getting his wounds treated and receiving treatment for the shock. The Nurses had left the room a minute or so ago after finishing patching Mycroft up, and had left Mycroft to get some rest. Mycroft was beginning to doze off, when he heard the door to his room open. Mycroft immediately sat bolt upright, his heart hammering. He knew it was silly as soon as that rush of fear was over. But his mind had immediately thought it was his attacker, coming back to finish the job. He also regretted it, as pain shot up from his injured shoulder. They were giving him painkillers, but they didn't kill_ all _of the pain._

 _The man standing in the doorway was not Mycroft's attacker._

 _It was none other than Sherlock Holmes._

 _Mycroft had been pleasantly surprised to see his younger brother. He had thought that Sherlock's reaction to Mycroft getting_ hurt _, but not killed, would be to give him a phone call to check up on him, and leave it at that. But no, there he was._

" _Nice to see-" Mycroft started to say, but he broke it off with a cough. His neck was badly bruised from when his attacker had attempted to strangle him, so talking was difficult and painful. Mycroft tried again. "Nice to see you, brother mine." Mycroft croaked._

 _Mycroft was sure that he looked like a disaster. His neck was wrapped with bandages with a brace to keep it still so it could heal. He had a bandage under his left eye and on his forehead where he'd gotten his face smashed into the pavement. He had a split lip and defensive wounds all over his arms and hands. As for his right shoulder, the one that had been shot, it was heavily bandaged and his entire right arm was in a sling to keep it still until it healed._

 _Sherlock didn't say a word, and he was keeping his face passive. Mycroft could feel his brother's blue-grey eyes scanning him, looking at every injury, assessing the damage. Finally, Sherlock stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Sherlock crossed the room with a few long strides, paused in front of Mycroft, then sat down on the edge of the bed._

 _He was quiet for a few moments before Sherlock finally said, "You're alive." Mycroft looked at him funny. Sherlock had said_ 'You're alive' _in a tone that almost sounded…_ relieved _. And in a manner that sounded like he was reassuring himself of the fact. "You're not okay. You've just had an attempt on your life. You're badly hurt and need both time to heal and possibly a little bit of time in therapy. But you're_ alive _, and with no brain damage. Given time, you'll heal and everything will go back to being the way it was before." Sherlock said. He still sounded like he was reassuring himself more than Mycroft, though._

" _Yes." Mycroft chuckled/coughed. "It will take more than one assassin to kill Mycroft Holmes." he joked, trying to lighten the mood._

 _Sherlock did not respond to that._

" _I saw you wince when you sat up. Are you in any pain?" Sherlock asked._

" _Only a little. The painkillers don't take_ all _of the discomfort away." Mycroft said._

 _Sherlock didn't say a word. He was just staring at Mycroft with this… look on his face that Mycroft couldn't quite place._

" _Sherlock-"_

" _One of your bodyguards died saving your life. Is that right?"_

" _Yes… very unfortunate." Mycroft said sadly._

" _I wish he were here so that I could repay him." Sherlock said._

 _Mycroft had to pause to process what Sherlock had just said. "Y-yes. I owe him my life." Mycroft agreed._

 _Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then, Sherlock asked a question._

" _Who?"_

" _What?" Mycroft asked._

" _Who_. _Did. This?" Sherlock asked slowly. His fists were clenched to his sides so tight, his knuckles were white. There was a dangerous tone to his voice, and the look in his eyes could only be described as murderous intent._

 _Mycroft gulped. But, he wasn't about to deny his brother the answer to the question. Sherlock would just find out some other way if Mycroft refused._

" _He was identified via facial recognition on one of the security cameras." Mycroft said. "The suspect's name is Jason Slender. He's twenty-six with blonde hair, brown eyes, and he has a long scar on his neck. He is a known serial killer who kills purely for pleasure. His current kill count is over twenty victims, though we believe that he was_ hired _to do this one. By whom, is yet to be known."_

 _Then, Mycroft heard Sherlock murmur through clenched teeth, "He's_ dead _."_

" _What?"_

 _Sherlock's demeanor softened when he saw how his big brother was looking at him._

" _Oh. Sorry. I said, 'How's your head'?" Sherlock said, putting on a smile. But Mycroft couldn't help but be concerned. Because as much as he tried to convince himself that Sherlock really had said_ 'How's your head' _, he just knew that that wasn't what he really said._

 _Sherlock talked with him a little bit more, before he got up to leave with the excuse that Mycroft needed to rest and that his throat probably hurt from talking (he wasn't wrong). But before he left, as he was standing in the doorway, Sherlock turned back to Mycroft and said, "Mycroft?"_

 _Mycroft looked over at his brother._

 _Sherlock clenched his fists again, but he took a deep breath and said, "Don't you fucking_ dare _ever scare me like that again, you_ ass _."_

 _And with no further explanation at all, Sherlock left._

 _Five days later, the head of Mycroft's attacker, Jason Slender, was found washed ashore the River Thames._

 _Only the head. The rest of the corpse was never found. It had been difficult to identify the owner of the head because it was so horribly disfigured when they found it._

 _The eyes had been viciously clawed out and as had the tongue. Every single tooth had been ripped out one by one, and the jaw was so badly broken and dislocated, the only thing holding it to the rest of the skull was a few fibres of muscle tissue, tendons, and skin. The cheekbone and forehead were broken in the exact same spots where Mycroft had injuries. There were four gigantic claw marks going across the entire length of his face, and almost all of his hair and part of his face had been burned off. That's right._ Burned _. The police's only explanation was that the murderer had used a flamethrower on him or something similar. And all of that had been done to the man while he was still alive. The Medical Examiner believed that the cause of death was when the murderer had ripped the head from the body with his bare hands._

 _The murderer, as vicious as he was, was never caught. Not so much as a scrap of evidence to even point out a_ suspect _was ever found._

 _But even today, Mycroft had absolutely no doubt in his mind that it had been Sherlock who had thrown that head into the Thames._

At the end of the hall, Mycroft and John were separated. They were keeping them apart to make escape and any possible rescue more difficult. Mycroft could see the desperate look in John's eyes, and there was nothing he could say or do to assure him that everything was going to be alright. Because with the way things looked at the moment, things were _not_ going to be okay.

Mycroft did not know what to do. It was a feeling he did not have very often, and he hated it. His mind was scrambling. He had to do something. He had to get out of this alive. He had to get back to Sherlock. Or at the very least, he had to save John or Molly. Because his brother needed _someone_. Even if it wasn't him, Sherlock needed someone to take care of him. Sherlock needed someone to protect him. Someone just needed to be _there_.

 _Mycroft was beginning his climb to the top of the British Government, and Sherlock was still in Uni. At some point while the boys were separated, Sherlock grew depressed because of Mycroft being away and because of other reasons, and went back to drugs. Mycroft did not know this of course, until he got a phone call to inform him that his brother had nearly died of an overdose on cocaine. The first thing Mycroft did after visiting Sherlock in the hospital was hunt down Sherlock's dealer and beat the crap out of him. Mycroft did a rather good job of mentally torturing him until he'd rather sell his soul to the devil than tell anyone who had beaten him within an inch of his life. Mycroft took off before the police could catch him in the act, but the dealer disappeared from the hospital the next day._

 _Sherlock was blissfully under the impression that Mycroft had him killed._

 _Sherlock was wrong._

 _Mycroft would never forget the feeling of the recoil of the pistol as the single bullet went through that whimpering bastard's skull._

Mycroft fried to focus on where he was being taken. Left, right, straight, right, right, straight, left, down an elevator, left, left, right… But with thoughts of his brother invading his mind and the incredibly long way they were taking, Mycroft lost track of the directions.

Then, they arrived.

Mycroft was shoved into a dark room lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a big tub of ice water in the center of the room with the words ' _Freeze the Iceman'_ painted on it in blue paint, chains connected to the floor, and a single video camera set up on a tripod pointed at the bucket of water in one corner of the room.

"Man, this is the least fun one." One of the men holding Mycroft said.

"Yeah. His head'll be underwater, so we won't get to hear im' squeal."

"Wish I'd gotten assigned to the bitch's group."

"In any case, I'm glad I'm not in this guy's shoes."

Mycroft could do nothing as he was forced onto his knees in front of the tub, and he was chained to the ground, there. One of the men turned the video camera on, before leaning casually against the wall. The largest, strongest brute grabbed Mycroft by the shoulder and by the back of the head.

 _I'm sorry, Sherlock._

That was Mycroft's last thought before he was dunked face-first into the freezing cold water.

* * *

John Watson had not been this scared since Sherrinford.

He didn't want to think about what was happening to Molly at the moment, he'd lost sight of Mycroft not too long ago, and he _needed_ to know where Sherlock was!

Sherlock Holmes. His best friend. The Consulting Detective and utter asshole who had changed his life for the better. The sole reason that John had been cured of his psychological limp. If Moriarty was going through with all of his threats, then John may be walking with a real limp, very soon.

 _No. No! Sherlock will come. He always does._

How many times had Sherlock saved John?

In the tunnel from Black Lotus at the end of the Blind Banker Case.

At the pool from Moriarty.

Jumping off of St. Barts and faking his death to save John, Mrs. Huston and Lestrade.

Pulling him out of the flames when Magnussen tried to set him on fire.

Sherrinford.

But then again… how many times had John saved Sherlock?

Shooting the Cabbie before Sherlock could take the pill at the end of ' _A Study in Pink'_.

Making the Golem let go of Sherlock when he was trying to suffocate him.

Taking care of Sherlock when Irene Adler drugged him.

Saving Sherlock from Culverton Smith.

There were more, But John couldn't think of them at the moment.

 _Even if Sherlock doesn't come, you've got this. You invaded Afghanistan, for God's sake! You can get out of here without Sherlock bloody Holmes saving your ass,_ again _._

But, just as John was contemplating his means of escape, he was taken outside of the building.

And all hope was dashed. The island was _crawling_ with Moriarty's men. All armed to the teeth.

"See tha', Dr. Watson?" The man holding the gun asked menacingly. "Even if ye manage to get away from us, one of these'll kill ya if we don't."

John did the only thing he could do. He let himself be taken to the other side of the island and into another building, where he was led down two hallways and into a room that he could only describe as something out of a horror film.

The room was dimly lit by a single light on the ceiling, the walls were plain grey brick, the floor was once white tile but it was now more shades of pink and brown blotched with deep red from the many old, dry bloodstains that no one had bothered to clean up that covered the floor. There were chains on the walls, hanging from the ceiling, and on the floor. There was one wall that was covered in hooks, on which hung various unpleasant looking torture devices. All of which were dirty and had likely never been cleaned or polished, and many of which John knew these men intended to use on him.

Once the door slammed shut behind them, John was shoved to the ground and his handcuffs were chained against the wall, and his legs were strapped to the floor. John fought when they bound him, but against five men, most of which were stronger than him, resistance was futile.

The men stood up once John was bound. John struggled vainly a few times experimentally, trying to see if he could wriggle free. But as the term ' _vainly'_ implies, he could not get free no matter how hard he tried.

"Alright. Wha' should we do first?" One man asked another.

"Can't go wrong with a good old fashioned crowbar." Another said, picking up a crowbar that had been hanging on the wall.

"Alright. We can deliver the first blow with that. But I wanna use the bat with all the nails in it." Another said.

"Or… you could not." John piped up.

"Shut up!" One of the men barked, kicking John in the stomach.

"This is what you get for being friends with Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah. And for daring to go up against the great Moriarty." The man with the crowbar added, and he started to raise the crowbar over his head to bring it down on John's leg. John shut his eyes tight and mentally prepared himself for the pain…

But it never came.

Because that was when the entire building shook. The light above their heads swayed side to side, and tiny bits of rubble came down from the ceiling, and all of the men who were standing had to brace themselves to keep from falling over.

"Bloody hell?!" One of the men said.

That was when the Earth shook again, and John heard the distant sound of explosions. Followed by a deafening roar that sent a shudder through John's whole body.

" **WHERE ARE THEY?!"**

 _What the hell was that? What's that voice? And why does it sound… familiar?_ John wondered.

"What the fuck?" One of the men said.

The building started shaking even more violently and John heard the distant sound of more explosions.

 _Bombs? No. Not bombs. Explosion, yes. But it's not like a bomb going off. You were a soldier, John. You know what bombs sound like. That's not a bomb. What is that?!_

"Fuck this! Come on! Let's get the bloody hell out of here!"

And they all ran out of the room like rats. And all John did was open and close his mouth like a bloody flounder, deciding whether or not to say, ' _Untie me please so I can run too, before the building collapses on me.'_ But he ended up not doing so, remembering what they were about to do to him.

The building shook, again. The light above him started to sway to and fro even more violently, and John closed his eyes tight at the sound of yet another roar that shook the earth.

* * *

Molly Hooper screamed until her throat was sore when the men took her away from Mycroft and John. She fought with everything she had to no avail, but they eventually got tired of wrestling her down the hall, and the largest one threw her over his shoulder. And no matter how hard or how much she kicked and beat him on the head with her arms, no matter how loud she screamed, they would not and did not let her go.

And they wouldn't stop _touching_ her. They kept grabbing her hair, her breasts, squeezing her ass, and brushing their disgusting fingers against her thighs. Laughing and goading each other on.

She hated it.

She wanted to be back at home binge watching _Dr. Who_ with her cat, Toby.

She wanted to be working at St. Barts.

She wanted to be with Sherlock.  
She wanted to be literally _anywhere_ but here.

Sherlock. She also wanted Sherlock. She didn't want him to worry about her. She hated that they were using her to hurt him. Molly tried to think about him. As many times as he made her upset, as many times he was an ass to her, Molly always felt safe when she was with him. When Sherlock was around, no matter how bad things seemed, Molly always just _knew_ that everything was going to be alright. And it always was.

His smile.

That lovely deep baritone that reminded Molly of rich dark chocolate.

His calculating, bright, _dazzling_ icy blue eyes that she had fallen in love with.

The fast pace he spoke at when he was deducing, or talking about some experiment.

Those perfect cheekbones.

The way he sometimes ruffled his thick black curls when he was frustrated.

That funny (yet also charming) praying pose he did when thinking.

The way his coat billowed behind him when he walked.

The beautiful melodies he played on his violin.

Sherlock. Sherlock! SHERLOCK!

She had to fight. She had to get back to Sherlock. She knew deep down that he didn't really need her. He'd be far more devastated over John or Mycroft. Sherlock might be sad if anything happened to her. And definitely guilty. He had tried to save her when he thought she was in danger when the Sherrinford incident had happened. They had not so much as mentioned that phone call since Sherlock had come over to her flat to tell her what had really happened and beg for forgiveness.

 _Frantic, hard knocking at her door. Molly knows it's him._

" _Go_ away _, Sherlock." She says through her tears._

 _She had been crying on and off since she hang up from that horrible phone call yesterday. She didn't know why he'd done it, and she didn't want to know why. Maybe for some sick experiment or just because he was bored. In any case, she'd been binge watching_ Once Upon a Time _with her cat and a tub of ice cream to try and make herself feel better. It wasn't working._

" _Molly! Please. Open the door."_

" _Why should I? You're so horrible, Sherlock. How could you do that to me? Why did you make fun of me like that? And I only said it because you said it."_

" _Molly. There was a crisis. I thought you were in danger. Please let me explain. I swear! It's not like that! I'd never do that to you!"_

" _What the hell are you talking about?"_

" _It's secret. But I'm telling you, anyway._ Please _, Molly. Open the door!" She heard the doorknob rattle as he tried it, again._

" _No!"_

" _Molly! I thought you were going to die!" Sherlock said desperately._

 _Only then did Molly jump off the couch, storm to the front door, unlock it, and open it. "What the bloody hell are you-"_

 _But Molly was cut off. The second the door was open, Sherlock was on her. His arms were around her, and he was holding onto her small form for dear life, like she'd slip away if he loosened his grip even for a second. His face was buried in the crook of her neck and he was talking in a hoarse voice that almost sounded like it had been crying._

" _I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. I hurt you. I'd never hurt you, Molly. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. I thought I was going to lose you. I was so scared. I'm sorry…"_

Okay, maybe he did care about her. A little. In his own way. He'd been terrified when he'd thought Molly was going to be hurt. What was he feeling, now?

Ugh! This was no time to be contemplating this! She had to FIGHT!

Getting a fresh surge of determination, Molly shrieked right into the ear of the man who was carrying her. He cried out and dropped her, clutching his eardrum. Molly landed on her feet and tried to make a run for it, but two more men grabbed her.

"You bitch!" The man with the damaged eardrum snarled.

"Where you think you're going, pretty thing?"

"Don't touch me! Let me go!" Molly spat at them.

"Oh, she a lil' spitfire, innt she?" One of them slurred.

Molly fought with more fire than she knew she had. But they were too much. They all lifted her over their heads, their hands roaming all over her, and they carried her down the hall. The entire way, Molly screamed. She kicked. She scratched and punched and cursed many obscene things she'd never repeat in polite company. She managed to bite one of them, too. They dropped her twice, but every time she tried to run, they pulled her back and laughed.

 _Sherlock! Sherlock! I'm sorry, Sherlock! I'm trying!_

Finally, Molly was taken into a dark room. The dim lights were turned on, and there was an open coffin on a low table on the side of the room farthest from the windows. The lid was propped up against the wall and rather than a name, it read ' _I love you'_ on the lid. The setup was identical to what had been described to her when she was told about the Sherrinford incident and what had been going on on the other side of the phone line when 'The Phone Call' had happened.

"The fuck is that?"

The boss said something about ' _Sherrinford Throwback'_ or some shit."

"Man, that's some messed up Necrophilia crap or something."

"I don't really care where we fuck her, but I'm getting laid!"

They tossed Molly into the coffin like a piece of flesh to be fought over.

"I want her first."

"Hey! We already drew straws! You get the third go! I'm first!"

Molly took their arguing as an opportunity. She jumped out of the coffin and made a mad dash for the window.

 _Wait… is that fire?_ Molly asked herself. Because that was a lot of orange light coming from outside. And were her captors so oblivious that they didn't hear the screaming coming from out there?

Her moment of hesitation cost her her freedom. One of them grabbed her by the arm.

"Where the hell do you think you're going, bitch?"

"LET ME GO! SHERLOCK!" Molly didn't know why she yelled for Sherlock, but he always seemed to pop up at the sound of his name. And at that moment, she wanted to see his stupid face more than she wanted anything else in the world.

"Lover boy's not coming. Come on, girly. You and I have a date." A greasy-haired brute grinned with yellow teeth.

Molly struggled. He grabbed her by the arm and by the shirt, and when Molly tried to jerk away from him when he tried to pull her in towards him, the buttons on the front of her shirt broke and went flying.

"Tits are too small." He scoffed. "But this is still gonna be good." He said, and he threw her back into the coffin.

Molly squealed scrambled to get up, but one of them grabbed her by the arm and before she knew it, her wrist was chained to the coffin. The creep who'd ripped her shirt open jumped into the coffin, his legs on either side of her, and one arm pinned her down.

"Smile for the camera. Smile for Mr. Holmes, gorgeous." He said, jerking a thumb in the direction of a video camera behind them recording the whole thing.

"Leggo! Get off me! Stop! SHERLOCK!" She screamed, again.

"You'll be a nice fuck, won't you, love?" He asked, reaching for his pants.

As his hoarde was in the process of being man handled, a certain someone was making his dramatic entrance.

Sherlock deduced immediately that John, Mycroft, and Molly would not be kept together. Different things were being done to them (he prayed to whatever God was listening that nothing had been done to them _yet_ ) and Moriarty wasn't stupid enough to put all of his leverage in the same place so that if one was rescued or escaped, the chances of losing the other two would not be as high. The second thing he deduced was that they would likely be somewhere near the interior of the facility, and not anywhere near the docks or airport… so that was the first thing Sherlock destroyed.

Before he even landed, Sherlock glided over the docks and completely destroyed every ship and port with a single huge ball of fire that burst out of him like the fires of hell. Greedy, his beautiful flames ravenously devoured all they touched and burned everyone that dared stand in their way. Once that was done, Sherlock came around and did the same to the airport. The planes caught fire and exploded as their fuel was ignited. The orange light and beautiful glowing embers rising up into the atmosphere was a sight that Sherlock could only describe as glorious. No planes or boats would come after him and his horde once they made their escape.

The sound of the explosions attracted attention. Men were pointing at him and pointing at the fire, screaming with horror at the sight of him. A few had begun to mobilize and attempt to put out the blaze. Good luck with that.

With a growl, Sherlock turned in the air once again and landed. The earth shook and smoke was blown away from him with the force of the impact of his many tons hitting the ground. Sherlock slammed his talons down onto the ground and roared angrily at the top of his lungs.

" **WHERE ARE THEY?!"**

Ugh. No one was answering his questions and they were shooting at him, _again!_ Sherlock snarled in the back of his throat. As much fun as screwing with stupid humans had been in his previous life, Sherlock didn't have time for this. With a small puff of fire (well, small compared to his usual blasts), Sherlock annihilated the largest group. God, all that screaming was annoying.

Sherlock lowered his head to the ground and started sniffing around for any sign of his beloved horde. _Men. Guns. Men. Oil. Woman, but not Molly. Dog. Men. Motor oil. Gunpowder. Dirt. Sniper. Moriarty._ He growled when he smelled his enemy.

 _Wait, though. That Sniper and Moriarty's only reason for coming to this island would have been my horde, unless there's something else I don't know about._

Sherlock started intently sniffing around the area where he smelled the consulting criminal, trying to keep himself from gagging at the _stench_ that disgusted him so. Then, it was faint but it was definitely there.

 _Lemon body products. Cat. St. Barts Hospital. Molly. Molly! MollyMollyMollyMollyMollyMollyMolly!_

Sherlock couldn't help but let loose a shrill sound in the back of his throat from the joy, relief, and excitement he felt when he inhaled the wonderful scent of Molly Hooper.

Molly always wore lemon scented shampoo, conditioner, and sometimes perfume to mask the smell of disinfectant, medicine, and death that always clung to her clothes and hair from her choice of career. Because of this fact, Sherlock had found the smell of lemon soothing, as of late.

But he couldn't let his excitement cost him the scent. Sherlock kept sniffing around, and right next to Molly's scent was another distinct smell.

 _Cologne. Expensive Cologne. Chocolate (someone's been getting in the sweets, again). Cigarette smoke. Mycroft. That's Mycroft!_

Sherlock would know his brother's scent, anywhere. Sherlock chirped again with happiness. But what about _John_?

Sherlock sniffed around a little more, and there it was.

 _Baker Street. Ms. Hudson's cooking. Tea. Rosie. John. John! John Hamish Watson!_

Sherlock let loose one final purr of happiness. He'd found them. They _were_ here. The Sniper had _not_ been stupid enough to lie to him. Now, he just needed all three of them safe on his back or in his talons.

Sherlock had just begun to follow the scent when his sensitive ears picked up a distant noise that caught his interest.

 _Molly? That sounded like Molly!_

Sherlock's head snapped up and he listened harder in the direction of the sound. That was when he heard the distant sound of Molly's terrified voice screaming his name.

"Let me go! Sherlock!"

With no hesitation, Sherlock raced towards the source of the sound. It was coming from a particularly large building. Not as tall or wide as Sherlock's huge body, but still one of the larger ones when compared to the other buildings. Sherlock's ears strained to hear her again, and his nose sniffed the outside of the building frantically, looking for even a scrap of her scent. And just when he was beginning to panic, there it was again. Louder this time, now that he was closer.

"Leggo! Get off me! Stop! SHERLOCK!"

"You'll be a nice fuck, won't you, love?"

Sherlock reared his head back and snarled. _OH, NO YOU DON'T!_


	4. IV: Breathe

" _Leggo! Get off me! Stop! SHERLOCK!" She screamed, again._

" _You'll be a nice fuck, won't you, love?" He asked, reaching for his pants._

Molly Hooper's would-be rapist had barely gotten his zipper undone when a shadow fell over the building outside, and an instant later, the roof and the wall with the windows were ripped completely off by a huge set of talons. Then there was the noise. It was a cacophony of distant screaming, yelling, gunfire, and the roar of furious fires, burning bright. But the next sound that met Molly's ears drowned them all out tenfold. The terrifying sound of an earth-shattering _**ROAR**_ **!**

The smoke and orange light from the flames completely blocked out the moon and stars, but they were the perfect background and lighting for the gigantic enraged dragon that was towering over them. Smoke billowed out of his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, making a halo of smoke up around his hellish horns. Molly felt his huge flaming orange eyes lock onto her, and she felt like he was staring straight _through_ her, into her soul.

He was huge. He was powerful. He was _terrifying_. And yet, the first thought that came into Molly's mind was:

 _He's beautiful._

The dragon opened its mouth and snarled with huge white teeth, each as long and sharp as a sword.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" The man above her yelled with terror, jumping to his feet.

" **GET OFF OF HER, YOU DISGUSTING PIG!"** The dragon roared, spreading out his huge wings. His chest and neck were glowing orange, holding his fire and preparing to launch it at his enemies.

 _So Magnificent…_ Molly thought.

The dragon's head surged forward right at her, and in a moment of fear, Molly shut her eyes tight. But no harm ever came to her. Molly heard a scream, then she felt something warm and wet splash her face. When she opened her eyes, and looked up, the would-be-rapist's corpse was hanging halfway out of the dragon's mouth.

The other men stared in horror as the dragon let a small puff of flame escape his jaws, and the body was incinerated into ash in an instant.

The other four men screamed and made a run for it, but the dragon was faster. Molly didn't see any of this, as her eyes were shut tight, but she could hear each scream getting abruptly cut off. She could hear the sound of _his_ huge jaws snapping shut over their bodies, the snapping and cracking of breaking and splintering bones, and the sickening sound of flesh being ripped open, blood flying and splattering everywhere. She felt a splatter of blood land on her lab coat, and some landed on her exposed chest. And all the while, the dragon snarled.

" **How** _ **dare**_ **you? How dare you touch her?** _ **DEFILE**_ **her with your filthy hands? You** _ **animals!**_ **Nobody touches her!** _ **Nobody!**_ **No one hurts my Molly! No one steals from my horde!** _ **Die!**_ **You** _ **disgusting**_ **son of a bitch! You pest! You** _ **disease! DIE!**_ "

Molly clamped her hands over her ears and curled in on herself, but the noise was so _loud_ , there was no blocking it out. Then, with a final piercing scream and a sickening _crunch_ … it was silent. And the only sound was the roar of the fires, the distant sound of men shouting, and the sound of _his_ heavy breaths.

Molly did not open her eyes. She knew he was still there, and while she could not help but be awed by _him_ , whoever or whatever he was, she couldn't help but be terrified. Besides, she didn't want to see the carnage she'd just heard.

 _Just kill me quickly and be done with it._ Molly thought.

* * *

Rage. That was Sherlock's only emotion when he saw that disgusting _animal_ on top of Molly. Molly with her top ripped open, no less. Pure. Untamed. _Rage_. For a split-second, it had just been _horror_ , until he realized that (thank God) both of them were still wearing clothes. He'd made it. With not even a half a minute to spare, but he'd made it. The feeling of relief when he saw her lasted only a split-second before the rage washed over him again like a tidal wave.

So, rather than say something to indicate to poor Molly that he wasn't going to hurt her, Sherlock thundered the first thought that came into his mind. " **GET OFF OF HER, YOU DISGUSTING PIG!"**

That's when everything went red. All Sherlock wanted to do after that was kill. Kill anyone who _dared_ try to _defile_ his beautiful Molly with their disgusting, _unworthy_ hands. Anyone who _dared_ try to hurt her.

The taste of the rapist's blood in Sherlock's mouth, the crunch and snap of his bones between Sherlock's teeth, and the sound of his scream being cut off when Sherlock snapped his jaws shut over him was one of the most satisfying experiences that Sherlock could remember. But he wasn't stopping there. He wanted more. He wanted _more_!

Sherlock did not eat the man, either. He'd eaten plenty of humans as Smaug, and he'd even eaten a few people during his two years destroying Moriarty's network just to get rid of evidence. Heck, he'd also eaten the rest of the corpse of the man who had dared try to kill Mycroft all those years ago. Minus his head of course, which Sherlock threw into the Thames to be found by the police, as a warning to anyone else who tried to steal from his precious horde. But Sherlock incinerated this man's corpse and spit out the ashes. _I'd rather puke than have any of your filthy blood inside me._ Sherlock thought with anger. _Besides, if I eat him, he sustains me. And his death would have meant something. A bastard like him deserves to die in vain._

His jaws empty, Sherlock rounded on the other four men. They screamed as he slaughtered them. And Sherlock let his loud cursing fill their ears as one by one, the screams went silent.

" **How** _ **dare**_ **you? How dare you touch her?** _ **DEFILE**_ **her with your filthy hands? You** _ **animals!**_ **Nobody touches her!** _ **Nobody!**_ **No one hurts my Molly! No one steals from my horde!** _ **Die!**_ **You** _ **disgusting**_ **son of a bitch! You pest! You** _ **disease!**_ _**DIE!**_ "

Sherlock stood still seething as he ripped the last one in half. The taste of blood was fresh on his tongue, and the remnants of the room were decorated with red splatters and body parts. Some charred, some not. _I want more_. Sherlock thought. _I won't stop until everyone aside from my horde on this island is dead beneath my claws._

But then…

A whimper.

That was all it took to snap Sherlock out of his bloodlust. A small, fearful, involuntary whimper out of Molly Hooper. Sherlock felt every single muscle in his body relax at the sound. And just like that, all that bloodlust was replaced by a warm feeling somewhere inside him that he couldn't quite name. And the only thought in his mind was…

 _Molly._

* * *

Molly sensed movement. She did not have to open her eyes to know that he was _right there_. Just a few feet away from her. She felt his hot breath blowing on her each time he exhaled, and she could hear his huge, deep respirations. His breathing pattern suddenly changed to quick, sharp inhalations of air, and she could sense his huge head moving all around her, his nose not even a foot away from her. _Is he… smelling me?_

Then, Molly heard a huge, deep sigh of… _relief_? " **I made it. Thank you, whatever God is listening. Just in time. Thank God… Thank God."**

Molly felt his huge snout nudge her, and she involuntarily flinched with fear. She still had not opened her eyes, and she didn't plan to until she could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

 _Come on, you great beast._ Molly thought. _Just kill me, already. Make it quick. Don't make me suffer._

But he didn't kill her. He didn't hurt her, at all. In fact, the dragon… _whimpered_. Honestly, he did! It was a noise that Molly could only compare to the sound of a puppy who had done something wrong. Except that it was coming out of a fire-breathing winged lizard larger than Big Bentley.

" **Molly?"** That great, deep voice rumbled.

Molly froze. _He knows my name. How and why does he know my name?_

Molly slowly opened one eye, then the other. Her vision was blurry. Had she really been crying? Molly slowly moved her arm up and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. The dragon did not react. But even with her vision cleared, Molly was still looking away, and couldn't see him. Breathing deeply, Molly slowly turned to look at the monster that had called her name.

Oh _God_ , he was big. Each of his eyes was bigger than she was. The coffin she was currently sitting up in would easily fit _inside_ one of his eye sockets. His skull alone was the size of a bus. Even bigger, if you counted his horns. He was looking right at her. Blinking slowly. He had two eyelids, she noticed. A transparent one that opened and closed sideways over the eye just before the upper, solid eyelid did. But the rage that had dominated those flaming orange orbs was completely gone. Replaced by a gentleness she would never expect from such a creature. His long neck was bent down to look at her, which was connected to a broad chest and shoulders. He had four limbs, not six, Molly noticed. His vast wings served as his forelegs.

Molly gulped. She could feel her heart racing, and she couldn't help the fear that gripped her like a vice.

The dragon purred deep in the back of his throat when he saw her lovely brown eyes open, and his snout gently nuzzled her right in the middle of her chest. A sob escaped Molly's lips at the contact. The dragon quickly pulled back when he realized he was frightening her.

" **Oh, shhh… shhh. I'm sssorry… I'm so sorry. I frightened you. I didn't mean to scare you."** He said in a gentle voice, " **But I promise, I'd never hurt you, Molly Hooper. Not on purpose. Never ever on purpose. I… I'm just sssso happy to see you. Because I know what those** _ **disgusting**_ **animals were planning to do to you."** He said that last sentence with a hint of anger, but it wasn't directed at her. But it was gone in an instant, and his voice became soothing, once again.

" **I was so scared I was going to lose you. Shhh… shhh… I'm sorry. Please don't cry, Molly. Pleeeease don't cry. I hate it when you cry. I** _ **hate**_ **ssseeing you cry."**

Molly sniffed. "H-how do you know my name?" She asked, wiping her eyes, again.

The dragon hesitated. " **I cannot tell you. But I know it, and I'm here to take you away from this horrible place."**

Molly rubbed her eyes again and sat up. "Y-you're not going to kill me?"

The corners of the dragon's lips raised in a small smile. He made that purring sound again, and Molly knew that he was happy to answer this question. " **Kill you, my beautiful Molly?"** He shook his head. " **I would rather carve out my own heart. To kill you, to steal something as beautiful, as smart, as kind, as loyal, as** _ **wonderful**_ **from the world as you are, would be the most selfish, evil thing anyone could ever do."**

Molly let a gasp leave her. No one had ever said anything like that to her. Simple, plain, boring, downright _dull_ Molly Hooper, who dissected corpses for a living to figure out how they croaked. She wasn't even pretty. Her mouth and her breasts were too small, she was too short, she was too pale, and there was certainly nothing special about her hair. She was just… _ordinary_.

"Y-you're lying." She said. "I'm not beautiful. I'm not even _pretty_. I'm smart enough to be called a doctor, but I'm not clever. I… I'm not what you say. Y-you must be mistaken."

The dragon snorted. " **Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."** He purred with a voice like rich black chocolate. " **It saddens me that you think so lowly of yourself. Because in my eyes, you are a colorful koi in a sea of plain,** _ **ordinary**_ **goldfish. You're a diamond in the rough. A peacock in a murder of crows. A star that shines so much brighter than the others. You're a treasure, Molly. You're** _ **my**_ **treasure. And you sparkle so much more than all the others."**

It was funny, really. Molly actually believed he was telling the truth. It was something about his tone, the endearing look in his eyes when he spoke. But something about him was also so… familiar. She looked at his face in the firelight, and something inside her was telling her that she'd seen him, before. It was the cheekbones, and the way his forehead connected to his snout, she decided. Not only the looks, but something about the way he said the words ' _goldfish'_ and ' _murder'_ reminded her of someone, but she couldn't think of who.

"W-who are you?" She asked.

He opened his mouth, but then closed it. " **Ssssmaug. My name is Smaug."** He finally replied.

"W-why are you doing this?"

The dragon hesitated, again.

" **Because you're treasure, Molly."** He replied. " **And no one steals from me."**

Molly couldn't help the blush that spread across her cheeks. _Bloody hell, I wish this thing was human. If he was, I'd probably marry him on the spot!_ Molly thought. She realized it was a funny thing to think, but she still thought it.

The dragon purred one last time. Then he said, " **Molly, we need to go… John and Mycroft are still in grave danger and I need to find them and save them, just as I did with you."**

 _John! Mycroft! Of course!_

"D-do you know where they are?" Molly asked.

" **No. But I will. I caught their scent earlier, but I heard you scream, so I came running."**

"How good is your hearing?"

" **I will tell you later. For now, I need you to climb up onto my head."**

"O-onto your head?"

" **Yes. Nestle yourself right into my horns, that should be the safest, most secure place on my body to carry you."**

Molly eyed his horns warily. He didn't have just two, as many animals did. He had a crown of many horns all over the top of his head. One under his chin, three or four connected to each side of his jaw, one sticking out of each of his his cheekbones, multiple above his eyebrows, and many more arranged symmetrically on his temples and on the top of his skull.

"Why not on your back?"

" **I don't have time to argue with you. Please, just do it. I move quite fast. There's too much movement on my back, and you'd probably fall off. Plus with all of the people** _ **still shooting at me,**_ **you are much less likely to accidentally get shot surrounded by my horns to protect you. And do grab that rope right there before you climb up here. You'll need something to hold on with."**

That made sense, so Molly moved to obeyed his request, but her chained wrist stopped her. "Erm… I'm sorry. I'm stuck."

Without a single word, the dragon raised one of its' forelimbs and snapped the chain with one long, sharp talon as though it were nothing. Molly still had a cuff and a few links attached to her wrist, but she was free.

"Oh. Uh, Thanks."

The dragon purred in response.

Smaug lowered his head as low as he could so that she could cautiously grab onto the hard scales on his snout. Molly grabbed the rope, as he requested, then tried to get on. She tried having herself up, but didn't have enough upper body strength to do so. She tried again but slipped and almost fell, but one of her feet landed on Smaug's lip and she righted herself. She flinched, hoping he wasn't about to complain, but the dragon stayed silent, and he was making an amused sound in the back of his throat. He made a slight flicking motion with his head and Molly was tossed into the air. She landed right on his snout with a small " _Oof."_ The dragon chuckled.

"Stop it. This isn't as easy as it looks." Molly stood up on his snout and started walking up his head up to his horns. "How is it even scientifically possible that something as big as you even exists?" She asked.

" **I dunno. Yet, here I am."** He replied.

Molly quickly found a good spot right behind the single largest horn in the middle of the top of his head.

"Erm, is this okay?"

" **It's fine."**

Molly threw the rope around the horn and tied it around herself, tying her to it. Then, she hunkered down behind it.

"I'm ready. We have to go get John and Mycroft."

" **Apologies in advance if I jostle you or traumatize you."**

 _What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"_ Molly wondered. But, she didn't have time to ask any questions. Because that's when the dragon turned around. Molly felt herself slip and she knew that if not for the rope around her waist, she surely would have fallen off. He rounded onto a group of dozens Moriarty's men and opened fire.

* * *

Sherlock was glad that he'd managed to calm Molly down and earn enough of her trust that she'd come with him willingly so quickly. Every second counted and Sherlock couldn't waste a single one. Every second, some blunt object could be making contact with John's leg. Or Mycroft could be gasping for breath as they plunged his head underwater.

 _John. Mycroft. Hold on. I'm coming!_

Sherlock couldn't help but be conscious of Molly's tiny body safely nestled against one of his horns. Her presence was both a burden and comforting to him. Comforting, because it was soothing his nerves to know that at least one of his precious horde, Molly particularly, was safe. A burden, because he was now more conscious of every movement he made and he was now trying to be more gentle with his movements so that he didn't jostle her too badly. That was costing him time. And as he'd already said, every second counted.

The first thing Sherlock did once he had Molly was turn around and wipe out the men who had been assembling for an attack behind him while he was getting her. The screams echoed in his ears, and Sherlock could only hope that Molly was covering her ears or something.

Sherlock put his nose to the ground, sniffing around for any sign of John or Mycroft. At first, he only smelled them where they had _entered_ the building. But then-

 _John!_

John's scent overlapped. A fresher one over the one that was growing stale. In fact, the fresh one wasn't even half an hour old. Sherlock started following the smell as fast as he could, but still forcing himself to slow down enough that he didn't accidentally lose the trail. It led him to one of the smallest buildings. Actually, it was rather close to where Sherlock had first landed. Part of Sherlock was glad he'd _not_ found John first. If he had, he would have been too late to save Molly before that bastard made penetration.

Sherlock had to hold in a growl at the thought. _That bastard… on top of her, Molly screaming, tears streaming down her cheeks._ Sherlock snarled and shook the thought out of his head.

 _She's safe. You got her. You killed him. No one's going to hurt her. Come on, now. You've got to get John._

The one-story building was made of solid white brick with peeling paint and a grey shingle roof. The windows all had bars over them, but the roof looked quite easy to remove. Sherlock slapped the roof clean off with his tail, as easily as opening a cookie jar. The roof flew off and landed upside-down next to the building, breaking and splintering into a mess of grey tiles and wood as it landed.

 _Wow, that was_ not _a well built roof. I mean, I hit it pretty hard. But still, that came right off._

Sherlock heard a familiar scream and looked down into the top of the building and immediately spotted a terrified and awestruck John in a small windowless room in the middle of the building. Other than that, the building was empty. Moriarty's men likely heard the racket Sherlock was making when he landed and made a run for it.

Sherlock got closer to John, resulting in John leaning away from Sherlock, making small frightened noises. John couldn't scramble away because both of his legs were strapped to the floor with thick leather straps. Sherlock almost laughed at his friend. The look on his face reminded Sherlock of the time he'd locked John in that lab with ' _The hound_ ' during the _Hound of the Baskervilles_ case. God, _that_ was funny.

But at the same time, Sherlock didn't want John to be afraid of him. But, he was too worried about his friend to worry about that. Sherlock got in even closer.

"Hey! No! What- Get back! Go away!" John stuttered, struggling against his restraints. _Ah, the bravery of the soldier._

Sherlock did not listen to John's pleas to go away, and he had no plans to. Sherlock got in close enough to properly look at John's legs and found not a single injury. The men had apparently run before they had landed a single blow on John's leg. Yet another wave of relief washed over Sherlock like a tidal wave, and he released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

"John!" A little voice on op of Sherlock's head cried out.

John's face switched from fear to bewilderment. "Molly? Ah- what the bloody hell?"

"It's alright, John! This is Smaug. He's here to help!"

"B-but… what and how? What about… what about the men that had you? Did they touch you? A-are you okay?"

"They were about to, but Smaug… he killed them, John. He killed all of them and he saved me."

" **Thank you, Molly. John, I'm not going to hurt you."** Sherlock said in a gentle voice. He was trying not to growl or gag. The room John was in could only be described as a torture chamber. Old, dry blood was splattered everywhere and it reeked of old blood and death. Sherlock could see the torture devices on the walls, and it angered him to know that someone had been planning to use them on John.

"Y-you can talk?"

" **Please don't be surprised. As far as you were concerned five minutes ago, dragons don't exist at all. Is it really so shocking that I can talk?"**

And John being John, who could just adapt and roll with _anything_ , no matter how insane or weird, simply said, "Huh. Well… what do you know?"

" **As much as I would like to catch up…"** Sherlock reached out with one of his talons. John shrank away from him, just as Molly had, but Sherlock put his talon between John's body and the handcuffs binding John's hands and snapped the chain. John is lifted a few inches off of the ground in the process, and when the chain snapped, John fell to the ground right on his bum with a little "Oof."

John was so _small_ compared to Sherlock, that the scene looked rather cute. Sherlock chuckled, in spite of himself. John shook himself off and stood up. "What's so funny?" He asked.

" **I'm sorry, but you're so small. From up here, that was hilarious."**

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him. " **Now as I was saying, as much as I would love to catch up, Mycroft is still in grave danger. I don't know where he is and I have to find him. He's going to die if I don't."**

"That's right! You're right. We have to get Mycroft."

" **Undo those straps, then climb up on my head and get yourself secure next to Molly."** Sherlock said. He didn't really like the idea of Molly with her shirt ripped open so close to another man, even if that man was John. But, he knew that John didn't see Molly like that and that he wouldn't say or do anything. Plus, there wasn't really any other option at that point.

John wasted no time in undoing each of the three straps around each of his legs as fast as he cold. Sherlock lowered his head to the ground and let John clib up, just as Molly had. Despite his small size, John climbed up considerably faster and with a bit more confidence than Molly had. Perhaps because he could see that Molly had already done it, so it must be safe. As soon as Sherlock felt that John had safely ducked under the rope and sat down next to Molly, Sherlock moved on. But he made sure to set that little building on fire before he left. _That's what happens when you fuck with my horde._ Sherlock thought with an angry huff.

Sherlock was quite pleased that getting John hadn't taken as long as getting Molly. Now, he could find Mycroft faster!

Sherlock started sniffing around again.

A whole minute passed. And the only sign of Mycroft was the stale scent in front of the building where he'd found Molly.

" **Mycroft! Mycroft, where are you?"** He began to call out.

 _Five_ minutes passed. Sherlock couldn't get the image of Mycroft's body convulsing as he drowned out of his head. Now, Sherlock was panicking.

" **Mycroft! Where are you? MYCROFT?!"** Sherlock bellowed.

Sherlock wasn't being meticulous, anymore. He'd lost all patience. He rushed between the buildings, sniffing around frantically for any sign of his brother. But he'd checked everywhere, twice!

 _Where are you, Mycroft? Where are you?!_

Sherlock snarled and huffed from the stress and shook his head to and fro, trying to clear his thoughts. But he heard a yell come out of the two members of his precious horde and quickly stopped.

 _Come on, Sherlock! Think!_

Did they take him off of the island?

 _No. The first thing you did was check the surrounding waters for boats and the skies for planes. There weren't any, and you set the docks and the airport on- NO! MYCROFT! YOU WEREN'T ON ONE OF THOSE BOATS! YOU WEREN'T ON ONE OF THOSE PLANES! PLEASE GOD HAVE MERCY, YOU WEREN'T ON ONE OF THOSE BOATS OR PLANES!_

Sherlock roared and flapped his wings with rage.

"Whoa! Smaug! What's wrong?" He heard John ask.

" **I burnt the docks and the airport as soon as I got here because I didn't think any of you would be anywhere near there. But now I can't find Mycroft! W-what if… what if-"**

Sherlock cut off because he just couldn't bear to say it. _What if I incinerated my big brother?!_

Sherlock had delighted in watching Moriarty's men burn. Seeing the inferno devouring their clothes and their hair and their flesh as they rolled around and screamed, trying to quench the flames. But the image of Mycroft burning, his hair burning away down to his scalp, the flames spreading along his body to burn his clothes away, his flesh turning black and burning down to the bone, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobbed and screamed and writhed in pure agony-

It was like a black arrow to Sherlock's heart.

 _Please… please, no._

Despair settled itself heavily on Sherlock's chest.

 _Please, no._

"W-wait!" John said from his spot next to Molly on Sherlock's head.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock asked, straightening up. Had John seen something? Or had he thought of something? Come to think of it, John and Molly would likely have seen which way they took Mycroft! So maybe… just maybe…

"How did you find us?" John asked.

" **I followed your scent, all three of you, to the general direction of the building where I found Molly. But then, I heard Molly scream and I found her more quickly. After that, I followed your scent from that building to where I found you."**

"But how did you know that you weren't backtracking the same scent as before?"

" **Simple. One trail was fresher than the other. Your scent overlapped."**

"Did Mycroft's?"

Suddenly, lightbulb in Sherlock's head, as if by magic, lit up.

"Mycroft and I were taken the same direction for some of the way when they first separated us. But then, when we parted ways, I was taken out of the building through the same door we came in and I don't think there were any other entrances or exits. So what if-"

" **Mycroft was never taken out of the building."** Sherlock finished.

"Smaug, I wasn't taken out of the building, either!" Molly said. "Which means-"

" **UGH! Sh- Smaug, you are an** _ **IDIOT**_ **! Mycroft is in the same building where I found you, Molly! John Haymitch Watson, sometimes I forget how bloody** _ **brilliant**_ **you can be, sometimes! And Molly, I swear to any deity that might be listening, I am going to** _ **kiss**_ **you once this is over!"** Sherlock said as he charged in the direction of the building where he'd saved Molly.

 _Hold on, brother mine. I'm coming!_

Sherlock skidded to a halt in front of the building and started sniffing around the outside, peering through every window for any sign of his brother.

 _I know you're in there, Mycroft. Hold on!_

* * *

 _It's so cold_.

The water went everywhere after a few dunks. Mycroft's head and shoulders were absolutely soaked, and it ran down his body to the point that his chest, stomach, and back were wet as well. And the splash got the water all over his lap, too. Every time he got enough time to even process how cold he really was, his body trembled and shivered involuntarily, his teeth chattering.

But Mycroft could handle the cold.

He just wanted to _breathe_.

They'd dunk him and hold him under for random amounts of time with no pattern. From a millisecond to so long he thought his lungs would burst. They let him breathe the same way. Sometimes, the second his head left the water and he was inhaling a big breath of valuable oxygen, they were duking him under again, and he got a breath of ice water. When he came up again, coughing and choking and sputtering, water pouring out of his mouth and his nose, they didn't care. And before he knew it, he was under, again.

The stress and lack of oxygen combined were putting Mycroft in sort of a haze. Sounds were muffled even above water (perhaps from the water in his ears or from said daze) and though he was mostly keeping his eyes closed to keep the water out of them, his vision the few times he _did_ open his eyes was just blurs of color.

 _Sherlock, if you can hear me…_ Mycroft thought as he was dunked, yet again, _I'm sorry_.

They pulled Mycroft's head up, and he gasped for air desperately.

 _This isn't your fault, brother mine._

Mycroft was pretty sure he wasn't leaving this place, alive.

Through the blur, Mycroft heard something. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it sounded like his little brother's voice, calling out to him.

"Mycroft! Mycroft, where are you?"

Mycroft opened his eyes and looked around. Those blurs of color were vaguely shaped like the silhouettes of people. He could hear their voices, but couldn't make out much of what they were saying through the muddle. And was the room shaking, or was that just his own confusion playing tricks?

"(something, something) wuss tha?" "(something something) shay- (something, something)" "(something something) let's ju ged outta here!" "(Something) killim fur (something something)"

But one voice, he heard very clearly. "Mycroft?"

 _Sherlock, is that you?_

The hand on his shoulder and the hand on the back of his head shoved his head into the cold, again and Mycroft couldn't breathe. It was dark, but the bubbles going past Mycroft's eyes were so very pretty.

Sherlock's voice was muffled, now. "Mycroft... Mycroftwhereareyou? I'm trying to find you! I'll save you..."

 _Save me? Why would I need saving, brother? Why am I in the water, again?_

Everything seemed clear, now. Mycroft could see Sherlock in that cute little sweater he'd gotten for Christmas from Uncle Rudy a few months back. He was wearing that silly pirate hat he loved so much, too. Was that Victor? Yes, there was Victor. He was right behind Sherlock with a stick, pretending it was a sword. And he was wearing an eyepatch over one eye. Wait, Euros was there, too! She was sitting a little distance off, watching.

 _Oh, that's right. We were playing a game, weren't we? That's right. We were playing pirates, again. I'm pretending to be shipwrecked._

"I'm over here, Sherlock! Here I am!" He yelled, but no sound came out.

And suddenly, his body was moving on its own, shaking and convulsing. It seemed to do that for so long, and Mycroft was scared. Then, he was still. And it was silent. He couldn't see Sherlock, anymore. It was dark. So dark. And it was cold. Mycroft felt like he was floating, and he couldn't move.

"Mycroft? MYCROFT!" A little voice cried out from somewhere off in the distance.

 _Sherlock…_

* * *

 _Basement._

Sherlock didn't really know nor care how he came to that conclusion, but he was so confident that he wasn't wrong, that he didn't hesitate in slamming his shoulder into the building and shoving the entire thing down onto its' side. Some of it still landed over the area where the bottom floor had been. Those pieces, he shoved every which way with his talons, swept it aside with his tail, and grabbed the biggest pieces in his mouth to throw out of the way.

" **Mycroft? Mycroft, where are you?"** Sherlock called out, but he received no answer.

Sherlock roared and swept more rubble away with his tail, moving his head around, looking at the ground frantically for a rectangular hole in the ground to indicate the location of the basement.

" **Mycroft?"**

Sherlock kept it up. Working even faster, looking around frantically.

" **Mycroft? Mycroft, where are you? I'm trying to find you! I'll save you! Scream, give me a sign, anything!"**

Sherlock was already desperate, but he was beginning to lose all hope when-

 _There it is!_

Out of the corner of one of his huge eyes, Sherlock spotted what he had been looking for so frantically. Sherlock turned on a dime. He heard Molly and John yell at the sudden movement, but Sherlock didn't really care at the moment.

Sherlock skidded to stop in front of it and his head snapped down to the ground to sniff at it, looking for his brother's scent.

 _Mycroft! There you are!_

Sherlock roared and his claws tore through the Earth. The action revealed a medium-sized room. There were three of Moriarty's men. Two were knocked to the ground when the ceiling above them was ripped open. One next to the door just spun around and screamed.

But Sherlock wasn't paying any attention to that.

Him ripping the roof off had also knocked a tub of water over onto its' side. Water was pouring out of it, turning the concrete ground an even darker grey.

But Sherlock wasn't paying any attention to that, either.

Laying sprawled out on his side, his hands chained behind his back, soaking wet, was Mycroft Holmes.

He wasn't moving.

More importantly, Sherlock's big brother wasn't breathing.

Sherlock couldn't think. His brain wasn't even telling his body to breathe. When had he slaughtered the other three men in the room? He didn't know, but they were dead, suddenly. And he could taste their blood in his mouth.

Sherlock felt his bottom lip tremble. He opened his mouth, but a whimper came out.

" **M-mycroft?"**

Sherlock nudged the tiny body with his snout, and Mycroft's body rolled over onto it's back. But he didn't move. And he didn't breathe. His eyes were open, staring right up at nothing.

A knot inside Sherlock's stomach tightened until it was painful. Something wet went down Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock realized it was a tear. He hadn't even been aware that dragons _could_ cry.

" **M-mycroft? C-come on, now. S-stop m-messing around. W-wake up."** Sherlock stuttered. " **This isn't part of the game. Y-you're not… y-you can't…"**

"No!" Sherlock heard Molly cry out.

"Mycroft, no!" John yelled.

" **W-wake up, Mycroft."** Sherlock begged. His throat was so tight, he could barely speak. " **Y-you… you can't die!"**

There, he'd said it. That feeling described just a moment ago? Suddenly got ten times worse.

" **No, you can't die! You're not** _ **allowed**_ **to die! You're not allowed to leave me! Mycroft, I love you!"** He blurted out.

Sherlock nudged his brother over and over again, his nose pressed into his chest, breathing in the smell he'd known since he was a boy. The smell that had changed ever so slightly as he'd grown older.

 _Cologne, chocolate, cigarette smoke. Cologne, chocolate, cigarette smoke. Mycroft. Mycroft! MYCROFT, NO!_

Sherlock bowed his head close to his brother's body, letting the tears fall and the sobs wrench through his body, pouring out of his throat until it was sore.

Sherlock could not remember the last time he had actually cried for real. He'd shed real tears, yes. He'd shed them when he'd heard John's words at his empty grave after Reichenbach. He'd shed them alone for Mary. But he couldn't remember _ever_ crying like this in _either_ of his lives.

Sherlock felt movement on top of his head. Little feet ran down his snout, and Dr. John Watson jumped off of Sherlock's nose, landing in the room. Molly followed a second or two later. John ran over to Mycroft's body and fell on his knees. His hands tore at the collar of Mycroft's suit and shirt, freeing his airway some more before finding a spot right in the middle of Mycroft's chest. Then, John started pounding.

"Come on… come on, Mycroft. Sherlock needs you! Don't you dare give up, now!" John swore quietly.

Those three fast, _hard_ compressions were followed swiftly by mouth-to-mouth. John pinched Mycroft's nose shut, locked his lips over Mycroft's, and exhaled as much air into Mycroft's lungs as possible. He waited a moment for a reaction. There was none, so John started on another three compressions.

"Do you have any bloody idea what it'll do to Sherlock if you die? Do you? He'll rip himself apart. That's what he'll do!"

Molly was standing on standby, her hands were together, and she was praying quietly under her breath. She was a doctor, too. She couldn't do anything right now, but Sherlock knew she would jump in at a moment's notice.

Aside from the occasional choke or sputter as Sherlock tried to stop his sobs, Sherlock did not breathe as he watched. He felt so utterly helpless. All he could do was watch, wait, and pray.

 _Please, Mycroft._ Sherlock begged silently, _Please, don't be dead._

Of its own accord, the room labeled _Mycroft_ in Sherlock's mind palace opened wide.

 _Mycroft's smug face when he makes someone else look stupid._

 _His favorite brand of chocolate is Dove._

 _The way he walks about with his umbrella, even when it's not supposed to rain._

 _The way his dimples appear when he smiles._

 _The sound of his laugh._

 _He promised he'd always be there for me._

Sherlock shuddered and choked back another sob, watching John performing CPR with bated breath and a tiny flicker of hope burning bright that maybe, just maybe…

 _Please… please, be alive._

Sherlock blinked tears out of his eyes.

 _Please. Just… breathe._


	5. V: Why do I think I know you?

_Mycroft! There you are!_

In the medium-sized basement, there were three of Moriarty's men.

But Sherlock wasn't paying any attention to that.

Laying sprawled out on his side, his hands chained behind his back, soaking wet, was Mycroft Holmes.

He wasn't moving.

More importantly, he wasn't _breathing_.

Sherlock couldn't think. His brain wasn't even telling his body to breathe. Sherlock tasted blood in his mouth, and he realized that he had killed the other three men in the room. He didn't know when, nor did he care.

Sherlock felt his bottom lip tremble. He opened his mouth, but a whimper came out.

" **M-mycroft?"**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes heard a little voice call his name. Myc opened his eyes just a crack to see a small blurry shape standing in front of him. Why was someone waking him up? It had been so peaceful, just a moment, ago.

 _I'm tired. Just let me go back to sleep…_ Mycroft thought, snuggling back under the covers of his cozy bed.

"Mycroft, wake up _!"_

 _That voice, calling out to me from the dark… Who is that? Can't you see? I'm trying to take a nap._

Mycroft let his heavy eyes open just a little bit and fall on the small boy standing in front of him.

"Close. But sorry, I'm not Sherlock."

"Victor?"

Mycroft's vision cleared, and he could see Sherlock's best friend standing before him clear as day. He had a serious look on his face, but the corners of his mouth were curved upwards a small smile.

"We were playing a game. Remember, Mycroft?" Victor ' _Redbeard'_ Trevor replied. "So you're supposed to call me Redbeard."

Mycroft yawned. "Redbeard, can't you see I'm trying to take a nap? If you want me to play as the Kraken again in you and Sherlock's little games, that's fine. But can we please do it later? I'm so tired, all of a sudden. And what are you doing in my room? You know I don't like it when you and Sherlock come in here. Why are you waking me up, anyway? Was Sherlock looking for me?" He hoped he hadn't been asleep for too long. He didn't want to worry his little brother, nor his parents.

" _I_ wasn't trying to find you. Sherlock was. And John and Molly were helping."

"Who are John and Molly?" Mycroft asked, stretching. He really should be waking up. If he left Sherlock alone too long, he always got into trouble. And he didn't want to be late for lunch. Mummy and Father wouldn't like it if he wasn't punctual.

"Dr. John Watson and Dr. Molly Hooper. John, Sherlock's best friend. Molly, the girl you figured out he's in love with."

"What do you mean, Redbeard? _You're_ Sherlock's best friend. And I certainly haven't heard of any Molly."

Perhaps Victor had had a dream, and was confused. Besides, Sherlock was only five. There was no way he had a crush on a doctor. Much less that he was best friends with one.

"Mycroft. You're not twelve years old. You're all grown up, remember? You live in your own mansion just outside London, and Sherlock lives in a flat in London and solves crimes. He's a consulting detective, now. _You_ work for the british government."

"Oh, dear. Has Euros been messing with you again, Redbeard?"

" _Mycroft_. Euros _killed_ me. I'm _dead_. I've been dead for years. Then Euros burned down the house, Sherlock convinced himself that I was a dog, and you and your Uncle Rudy locked Euros up. Now wake up, Mycroft! Or you're going to be dead, too!"

"Redbeard-"

"You've been kidnapped by someone who wants to be mean to Sherlock, and someone just tried to drown you. You're dying. Wake up, Mycroft! Fight it. Don't let the water get you like it got me."

* * *

Sherlock nudged the tiny body with his snout, and Mycroft's body rolled over onto it's back. But he didn't move. And he didn't breathe. His glassy eyes were open, staring straight up at nothing.

A knot inside Sherlock's stomach tightened until it was painful. Something wet went down Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock realized it was a tear. He hadn't even been aware that dragons _could_ cry.

" **M-mycroft? C-come on, now. S-stop m-messing around. W-wake up."** Sherlock stuttered. " **This isn't part of the game. Y-you're not… y-you can't…"**

* * *

Mycroft felt something touch his side, but when he looked, there was nothing there.

" _M-mycroft? C-come on, now… W-wake up… This isn't part of the game…"_

A quiet voice spoke from the walls of Myc's bedroom. It sounded so close to him, But Mycroft looked around, and couldn't see the source. It sounded like it was on the verge of tears.

"What's that? Who is that?" Mycroft asked.

"That's Sherlock, Myc. He found you."

* * *

" **W-wake up, Mycroft."** Sherlock begged. His throat was so tight, he could barely speak. " **Y-you… you can't die!"**

There, he'd said it. That feeling described just a moment ago? Suddenly got ten times worse.

* * *

 _It does sound like Sherlock. But it's… grown up. He sounds so sad. And what does he mean, 'I can't die'? I'm not really dying… am I?_ Mycroft began to wonder.

* * *

" **No, you can't die! You're not** _ **allowed**_ **to die! You're not allowed to leave me! Mycroft, I love you!"** Sherlock blurted out.

* * *

 _But… that couldn't be Sherlock. He doesn't say 'I love you'._

* * *

Sherlock nudged his brother over and over again, his nose pressed into his chest, breathing in the smell he'd known since he was a boy. The smell that had changed ever so slightly as he'd grown older.

 _Cologne, chocolate, cigarette smoke. Cologne, chocolate, cigarette smoke. Mycroft. Mycroft! MYCROFT, NO!_

Sherlock bowed his head close to his brother's body, letting the tears fall and the sobs wrench through his body, pouring out of his throat until it was sore.

* * *

Mycroft felt something touch him again. Then again, then again. And there was the sound of someone crying. _Sobbing_ , was more like it. It was a little louder than the sound of Sherlock's voice, but still quiet.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called out, looking for his brother. If there was one thing Mycroft _hated_ , it was seeing his little brother upset.

* * *

Sherlock felt movement on top of his head. Little feet ran down his snout, and Dr. John Watson jumped off of Sherlock's nose, landing in the room. Molly followed a second or two later. John ran over to Mycroft's body and fell on his knees. His hands tore at the collar of Mycroft's suit and shirt, freeing his airway some more before finding a spot right in the middle of Mycroft's chest. Then, John started pounding.

* * *

"Sherlock, where are yo-oof!" Mycroft felt the wind get knocked out of him by someone or something hitting him hard right in the middle of the chest. Whatever it was hit him three times, then Mycroft felt himself involuntarily take in a big breath of oxygen.

"R-redbeard!" Mycroft asked, "What's happening?!"

* * *

"Come on… come on, Mycroft. Sherlock needs you! Don't you dare give up, now!" John swore quietly.

Those three fast, _hard_ compressions were followed swiftly by mouth-to-mouth. John pinched Mycroft's nose shut, locked his lips over Mycroft's, and exhaled as much air into Mycroft's lungs as possible. He waited a moment for a reaction. There was none, so John started on another three compressions.

* * *

Between the voices and the invisible whatever-it-was applying that mysterious pressure to Mycroft's chest, Mycroft was seriously starting to freak out. "What's happening? What's going on? Who is that, talking to me?"

"That's John." Redbeard said. "He's giving you CPR. You're unconscious, and you're not breathing or responding. You had a nice little nap, Mycroft. But it isn't time for the gates of paradise to open for you, yet. You still have too much to see, to much to learn, and too much to do. Come on, Mycroft! Wake up!"

That's when Victor slapped Mycroft across the face. Hard.

It stung. Mycroft cried out and turned his head to the side from the pain.

When Mycroft opened his eyes, they weren't in his room, anymore. They were chest-deep in water at the bottom of what appeared to be a well. It was dark. It was raining. It was cold. Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder boomed, illuminating Redbeard's face for a fraction of a second, but it was fast enough to see that Victor's flesh was gone, replaced by white bones.

Mycroft screamed with terror as the skeleton began to fall apart, the bones falling one by one into the black water with bigger splashes that clashed with the thousands of tiny splashes of raindrops.

" _Wake up, Mycroft!"_ Redbeard's voice said from the deep.

" _Don't let the water get you like it got me."_

Mycroft screamed again with fear, and he suddenly felt his feet leave the ground and his mouth was filled with water as he was suddenly dragged down, down, down into the black.

Mycroft kicked and wailed, bubbles coming out of his mouth as he tried to reach the surface, but to no avail.

Mycroft shut his eyes, praying to whatever God may or may not be listening to spare his life.

 _No. Not like this! I don't want to die! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!_

* * *

"Do you have any bloody idea what it'll do to Sherlock if you die? Do you? He'll rip himself apart. That's what he'll do!" John said as he pounded on Mycroft's chest.

* * *

 _Who is that?! Who is that that keeps talking to me?! I want to get back to Sherlock! I want to see him again! But please, someone, anyone, whoever you are, HELP ME!_ Mycroft was going to drown. He didn't want to drown! He didn't want to die!

And just when things couldn't get any more terrifying or weird-

 _Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump._

Mycroft opened his eyes.

It wasn't dark, anymore. The water was clear and blue, and there was light shining down on him through the water's surface, making beautiful shadows dance all over Mycroft's body and on the floor of the aquarium. Many fish swam around Mycroft peacefully. There was a glass wall in front of him, and on the other side of it was a certain blonde-haired woman. She smiled, and waved at him.

"M-Mary?"

Mycroft didn't know how he knew who she was, but he did. He also didn't know how he was talking, considering he still felt like he was drowning, but he was.

Mary Watson stepped right through the glass. Her feet floated off of the seafloor to drift right in front of him. Mycroft was beginning to think all this might not all be real.

"Mycroft." She said, sternly but gently, "That voice out there, calling out. That's my husband, John. He's _trying_ to help you. Redbeard already told you, John's giving you CPR. But he can only do so much. Come on, now. You're scaring Sherlock. He told you last time, didn't he? Sherlock told you the last time you almost died, to never scare him like that, again. You wouldn't break your promise, would you?"

 _The last time I almost died…?_

 _Wait…_

 _That's right._

 _I remember, now._

' _ **As Sherlock was standing in the doorway to leave Mycroft's hospital room, Sherlock turned back to Mycroft and said, "Mycroft?"**_

' _ **Mycroft looked over at his brother.**_

' _ **Sherlock clenched his fists again, but he took a deep breath and said, "Don't you fucking**_ **dare** _ **ever scare me like that again, you**_ **ass** _ **."**_

 _I remember._

 _Redbeard's murder… the house burning down… Sherlock getting into drugs and depression… Me, helping him through it… the British Government… Anthea… Moriarty… Molly Hooper… Greg Lestrade… John Watson… Sherlock. SHERLOCK!_

"I think we both know that poor John can't take care of Sherlock, alone." Mary said with a small smile. "He's too busy taking care of my daughter. Sherlock _needs_ his big brother. He needs _you_. He'll never admit it, as stubborn as you Holmes brothers are, but he loves you more than you know."

"I know. I… I remember."

"Good. Now, Sherlock has fought for you, and he has _killed_ for you. Now it's your turn. Fight against the current, Mycroft. Don't let death wash you away. Fight it, Mycroft! Come on! _Wake up!_ " Mary shouted the last sentence as she slapped him across the face.

* * *

William Sherlock Scott Holmes hated water.

 _Hated_ water.

With a _passion_.

Not like a cat hated water, no. He was just fine with the way it felt against his skin and with the way it felt as it went down his throat, though he was less fond of it when he was a dragon, a creature of fire.

Nope. That wasn't it, at all.

Water, you see, in Sherlock's eyes, was a _thief_. And anyone who knew him as Smaug would know why Sherlock hated thieves. What made water a thief, one might ask?

Every. Single. Time. Sherlock lost (or almost lost) something (or someone) precious to him, water was there either as the offender, or as a silent witness.

Where had Smaug's body fallen when he'd been shot out of the sky with that black arrow and killed in his previous life?

Into a lake.

Lake=water.

How had Redbeard died?

He'd drowned in the bottom of an abandoned well on the edge of the Holmes estate.

Drowned+well=water.

Though Sherlock hadn't technically lost anything that night, where were they when Sherlock and Moriarty had first met face-to-face and Sherlock had _almost_ lost John?

At a swimming pool.

Pool=water.

Where had Mary died?

At an Aquarium.

Aquarium=water.

Where had the Sherrinford incident happened?

On an island.

Island=water.

Where were they right now, with Sherlock's beloved horde in such danger?

Also on an island.

Surrounded by, you guessed it, _water_.

And now… how had Mycroft… how had Sherlock's _big brother_ … died?

He'd drowned. He'd been drowned. He'd been _murdered_. In a tub. Of. _Water_.

Mycroft had been _murdered_. Because of Sherlock. Mycroft was _dead_. Because of Sherlock. Mycroft was _dead!_ And he was never coming back! And it was all. His. _Fault!_

John was still giving CPR like a life depended on it (which it did), and Sherlock was beginning to hear Mycroft's ribs cracking from the constant hard barrages on his chest.

Sherlock didn't care.

Mycroft was _dead_. Couldn't John see that? Why was he still trying?

It wasn't like Mycroft would be using his body, anymore.

Sherlock's throat was sore from his sobbing, and it had lessened to mere snivelings. On the inside, the grief had dulled, and now Sherlock just felt numb. Completely. Emotionally. _Numb_. Like all the joy had been sucked out of him, and he would never be happy, again.

 _I'll give his brain to the Royal Society. That's what he wanted, isn't it? The rest, I'll give him a dragon's funeral. I'll have a human service, first. A chance for Mummy and Daddy, Anthea, myself, and anyone else who cared about him enough to come to say goodbye. Then, I'll cremate him and scatter the ashes in the river, Thames. I'll light the fire in the furnace, myself._

Sherlock got up from where he'd been sitting and moved a little closer to his horde. He laid down beside John, Molly, and Mycroft's body, and wrapped his tail protectively around them. Through teary orange eyes, Sherlock looked down at John, still giving the corpse CPR, and Molly, still praying, and silently swore: _I will_ _ **never**_ _let_ _ **anything**_ _happen to you. You're all I have left._

* * *

Little did Sherlock know, Mycroft was _not_ dead. He was far from it. As still as death as he lay on the outside, Mycroft was fighting a battle on the inside that only he could win. A battle between life, and death.

As Mary's hand struck his face, Mycroft again closed his eyes and his head turned to one side in pain. When he opened them, though the scenery was mostly the same, the clear blue water was now red, Mary had disappeared, and all of the fish that had been swimming around were gone.

And all he could feel was the water in his lungs. Mycroft could feel himself choking on it, and everything was getting darker with every second he stayed under. But at the same time, he could feel hands pounding on his chest, and actual _air_ being forced into his lungs, too. It was an excruciating sensation.

Mycroft looked up, to the light shining down from the water's surface. He could hear his brother, up there.

" _I'm sorry, Mycroft. I'm so, so sorry."_

 _Hold on, Sherlock. I'm not dead, yet. Brother's coming._

Despite the pain, Mycroft started kicking his legs, and his body started going up. He couldn't bring himself to peel his fingers away from his own throat, because of the agony he was feeling as he choked on the water.

 _I'm coming, Sherlock. I'm not dying, yet. I'm not dead!_

Mycroft was close to the surface, _so close!_

That's when cold, strong fingers wrapped around his ankle.

And Mycroft was being dragged down. Down! Under! Drowning! Let go! _Stop_!

Mycroft looked down to see the grinning face of Jim Moriarty looking up at him.

"Come _onnn_ , Mycroft! You can't leave, yet! Isn't drowning an ironic way for the Kraken to die?"

Mycroft screamed, bubbles erupting from his mouth.

But he was more determined than he was afraid.

 _I'm not going to die, here!_

* * *

Bullets snapped Sherlock out of his trance. Bullets hitting his shoulders, his back, his neck, and his wings.

Bullets that didn't so much as dent his armour-like scales.

The numbness suddenly vanished.

And _rage_ took its' place.

Growling, Sherlock slowly looked over his shoulder to see Moriarty's men making one last stand against him. There were about ten or fifteen of them. They were armed with pistols, rifles, and the occasional machine gun. Weapons that wouldn't so much as sting.

Some of them whimpered with fear when they saw the look in Sherlock's eyes.

His pupils had narrowed into slits. His eyes bright with murderous intent. And he only had a single thought.

" _ **You…**_ " He seethed. Sherlock stood up, still keeping his tail around his horde. " **You did this."** He snarled as he turned around, glancing at Mycroft's body to show them what they had done. " _ **You**_ **did this. You… you killed him."** Sherlock said, slamming one of his wings down on the ground between Moriarty's men and his horde. John had not stopped CPR, and Molly was looking up at Sherlock in all his murderous glory with wide eyes. He heard her move closer to John.

" _ **YOU KILLED MY BROTHER, YOU BASTARDS!"**_ Sherlock roared, gathered the heat in his chest, and let his biggest ball of fire yet swallow the murderers whole.

* * *

"You're gonna _love_ being dead, Mycroft. No one _ever_ bothers you."

Mycroft kicked at Moriarty's face, but hit him in the shoulder, instead.

"Anthea will cry."

 _Anthea! I have to get back to Anthea!_

Mycroft kicked Moriarty in the head, but it hit his forehead instead of his face.

"Mummy and Daddy will cry."

 _We can't have that._

Mycroft kicked at Moriarty again, but his foot grazed the criminal's ear.

"And Sherlock will cry, buckets and buckets. He's crying, right now."

 _That will_ _ **not**_ _happen. Hold on, Sherlock. I'm coming!_

Mycroft kicked Moriarty one last time, and this time it hit him right in the nose. Moriarty's fingers loosened, and Mycroft kicked free, making a beeline for the surface. With an excited giggle, Moriarty swam up after him, but an Earth-shattering roar split Mycroft's ears. Mycroft looked down to see a huge head coming up from the blackness below, right at Moriarty. The sihouette of an enormous dragon!

Powerful jaws snapped shut around the consulting criminal, and glowing orange orbs locked on Mycroft.

But the shadow did not attack.

The head came up, and the dragon's giant snout pushed Mycroft upwards the rest of the way to the surface. Once he was close enough, Mycroft was craving oxygen so badly, he didn't care to wonder why he was hallucinating about a dragon, of all things. He kicked off of the dragon's snout and as soon as his head breached the surface, with a hacking cough, Mycroft's eyes snapped open looking straight up at a black smoke-filled sky, and the face of John Watson. Water exploded out of his mouth, and violent coughs started ravaging Mycroft's body as he struggled to clear the agua from his lungs.

But this was no hallucination.

This was _real_.

He was alive.

* * *

Sherlock watched the bastards burn. Their corpses, that is. The ball of fire that Sherlock had sent at them from inside him was bigger and burned hotter with his rage and grief than any other he had ever produced. His victims had barely had a second to scream before their flesh was burned from their bones.

They deserved it.

They killed his brother.

They… killed… his… brother.

Sherlock looked back at his horde. _John… he's gone. Why are you still doing CPR? Molly, why are you still praying?_ Sherlock bowed his head and looked at Mycroft's body. God, just _looking_ at him caused a fresh wave of sadness to suddenly hit Sherlock, hard. Before he knew it, he was crying, again.

" _Caring is not an advantage."_ Mycroft had once said.

 _I'm sorry, brother._ Sherlock thought. _I know that caring isn't an advantage. But I can't help it. And now that you're gone… it_ hurts _! It hurts so much, Mycroft!_

Sherlock remembered being on the plane after he'd been called back from his 'exile'. He would never _ever_ forget what Mycroft had said, that day. " _I was there for you, before. I'll be there for you, again. I will always be there for you."_

 _You promised._ Sherlock thought. _You promised you'd always be there._ Why _? Mycroft, why did you lie to me?_

But… Miracles do exist. And miracles do happen, in the moments you least expect them to.

Sherlock should have known better.

Mycroft Holmes had never been the type of person to break a promise. In fact, to date, Mycroft had never broken a promise unless it was for the reason that it was for Sherlock's own good.

Because that was when Sherlock heard a small sound. Coughing, gagging, and wheezing, coming from below him.

Sherlock's head swiveled down to look at the source.

And he felt his heart stop.

 _Mycroft!_

His eyes were open, his chest was heaving, and he was coughing and hocking great amounts of water out of his mouth, dispelling it out of his lungs and greedily gasping for oxygen. John rolled Mycroft over onto his side immediately, making it easier for him to get the water out, and started patting him on the back gently yet firmly, doing his best to help Mycroft breathe.

And Sherlock…

Sherlock couldn't move.

His mind was telling him to do something, but his muscles were frozen with shock.

 _Mycroft…_

"Mycroft! Good job, Mycroft! You're okay, now. You're okay." John was saying to Mycroft, over and over.

"Thank God Mycroft, you're alright!" Molly said.

But Sherlock couldn't move.

 _Mycroft!_

Sherlock wasn't sure how long it took, nor did he care, but Mycroft's hocking and choking soon slowed to just the occasional small cough. He was breathing hard, his small body desperately needing the oxygen it had been denied for the past half hour or so. Sherlock could hear Mycroft's breath, and he could see his chest expanding and deflating as he inhaled and exhaled.

 _Moving. Breathing. Coughing. Alive. Mycroft's alive!_

But still, Sherlock did not move.

Mycroft looked up and looked around with three small coughs, but his back was to Sherlock, and he hadn't seen the colossal dragon, yet.

His first words were not to ask why the world around him was on fire.

His first words were not to ask the fate of those who had wronged him.

His first words were not to make some sarcastic comment about not being dead.

Sherlock saw him look at John and Molly. And Sherlock heard his hoarse voice quietly ask, "Where's Sherlock?"

 _MYCROFT'S ALIVE!_

At the sound of his brother's voice, whatever strings had been holding Sherlock back snapped. All of the relief and joy suddenly hit Sherlock and sank in all at once.

Sherlock let a loud, joyous, high-pitched chirp escape him, and he lunged.

 _ALIVE!_

* * *

 _I'm alive!_

That was all Mycroft had time to process before he was coughing, sputtering, and gasping. Hocking water out of his lungs through his mouth as fast and hard as he could.

Mycroft would have rolled over, but he could feel that his hands were still tied behind his back. Luckily, John reacted quickly. Mycroft felt John's hands shove his shoulder to roll Mycroft over onto his side, and this made it significantly easier to get the rest of the water out of him. The hand hitting him gently yet firmly on the back was helping, too.

"Mycroft! Good job, Mycroft! You're okay, now. You're okay." John Watson's voice said.

"Thank God Mycroft, you're alright!" Molly Hooper said.

But, Mycroft was too busy coughing to care. He gasped for air. He was getting more, _so much more_ than he had a moment ago, but it still wasn't enough. By the time Mycroft was done coughing, his throat was sore, and his chest hurt. But, he was _breathing_!

 _I am never complaining about the air quality in London, again._ Mycroft thought. _And I think I'll try to quit smoking, while I'm at it._

Mycroft took deep breaths, trying to replenish his body's supply of oxygen. Then, he sat up on his knees, he opened his eyes, and he took a proper look around.

John and Molly were there, looking at him with concern. Although her shirt was ripped open (Mycroft quickly averted his eyes from her exposed bra), Mycroft deduced immediately that Molly had (thank God) _not_ been raped. And looking at John, his leg was absolutely fine. He was covered in bumps, bruises, and a few scratches, but there were no new injuries from when Mycroft had last seen him. Both of them were dirty, with ashes and dirt all over their bodies and clothes. And their hair was blown back, as if it had been in the wind, recently.

Looking at his surroundings, it didn't take a genius to deduce why. The ceiling of the basement he'd been nearly drowned in _and_ the building that should have been attached to it was… _gone_. Simply, gone. And everything else he could see had been destroyed and/or was on fire. The only people Mycroft could see other than himself, John, and Molly were all dead.

 _What the hell happened?!_ Mycroft wondered. But, there was a far more pressing concern at the front of his mind.

Mycroft turned to John. "Where's Sherlock?" He asked.

John was opening his mouth, when his eyes widened in alarm and he jumped back. Mycroft heard a loud sound come from above him. It was like no sound Mycroft had ever heard. It sounded joyous. With just as much happiness in it as a child's excited squeal of delight on Christmas morning. But it most certainly wasn't human. It was like a bird or some sort of animal call. It was a loud, sudden, shrill sound that crescendoed quickly from quietly to so loud, it made him both cringe from the sudden pain in his ears, and jump in surprise at the sudden noise.

Mycroft started to turn around to look for the source of the noise, but something _big_ collided with Mycroft's back and side roughly, shoving him to the ground. Mycroft couldn't help but let out an " _Oof"_ as he landed, and he could feel something huge gently pressing down on him. He could hear something big breathing right above him. He could feel the fast, hard inhalations and exhalations of air as whatever-it-was _smelled_ him.

"WHAT THE BLOODY-" Mycroft started to yell, but then whatever-it-was nudged him on the side once, hard enough to roll him over onto his back. Mycroft's breath caught in his throat when he found himself looking directly into the dilated amber eyes of an absolutely. Gigantic. _Dragon_.

It did not register in his mind that dragons did not exist. All Mycroft knew at that moment was that it was freaking HUGE, and it looked like it was attacking him. Mycroft screamed with terror and tried to scramble away, but there was really nothing he could do and the dragon either didn't notice or didn't care about how frightened Mycroft obviously was of it.

The dragon was making a loud, happy, purring noise in the back of its throat. Not as loud as the first sound it had made, but the dragon was so freaking _big_ , that the purring rumbled like thunder so loudly that Mycroft could feel the vibrations in his chest. It took a few moments for him to realize that the dragon was in fact _not_ attacking him, it was affectionately _nuzzling_ him ever so gently with its' snout. Well, as gently as a creature that big could. To Mycroft, it felt like there was a horse sitting on him.

"What the hell! Bugger-EEEHHHWWW!" Mycroft was cut off by a long, soft, dark purple tongue flicking out of the dragon's mouth and licking him right across the side of his face. Of course, the dragon's tongue was so freaking _big_ , that it ended up licking him all across his chest, his shoulder, and it got in his hair, too. Mycroft found himself spitting at the ground in disgust when some of the creature's thick, bitter saliva accidentally got into his mouth while he had been complaining. "ACK! Disgusting! Blegh! Ack!"

And while all of this was going on, John and Molly were… _laughing!_

* * *

John Watson knew he shouldn't have been laughing at this. Really, he did. But it had to have been one of the top five funniest things he'd ever seen.

Imagine a puppy seeing his human after he's been away for a while. Tackling his person to the ground in joy and excitement, licking and nuzzling him all over while the puppy's own body wriggled with excitement from paws to tail. That, was basically what was going on before John's eyes. Except that the ' _puppy'_ was a winged lizard the size of bloody Godzilla, and the ' _human'_ was Mycroft Holmes. _Mycroft Holmes!_ Prim and proper, slightly stuck-up, head-of-the-british-government, umbrella-wielding Mycroft Holmes! Honestly, it was funnier just because it was _Mycroft_.

Smaug had snapped out of whatever shocked daze seeing Mycroft alive had put him in at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He let out a loud and unusual, yet happy noise and pushed Mycroft over with his nose. He then proceeded to nuzzle Mycroft all over, purring all the while, before going right to the main course and planting a big, wet, sloppy _dragon kiss_ right on the side of Mycroft's face!

And while all of this was going on, Mycroft had at first been under the impression he was under attack (the alarmed look on his face had been simply _priceless_ ), but seemed to just be freaked out and a bit disgusted, now. Disgusted, because most of his left side was now dripping with dragon spit. The best part was definitely when he'd gotten some in his mouth when he'd been loudly protesting the dragon's ' _affections'_.

Then, the dragon licked Mycroft _again!_

"John! Hooper! What the bleeding hell?!" Mycroft demanded, leaning as far away as possible from the gigantic happy wyvern.

"Mycroft. This is- pffft!" Molly started to say, but broke it off with a laugh.

"THIS ISN'T FUNNY!" Mycroft yelled as he was nuzzled, yet again.

"Is too!" Molly retorted, still cracking up.

"M-mycroft," John giggled, "t-this is Smaug. He's a friend." John said, getting ahold of himself. "We're not quite sure why, but he showed up, saved all of our lives, burned the place to the ground, and killed _everyone_ who got in the way."

Smaug had stopped his nuzzling and was now just staring down at Mycroft with his big amber orbs, still keeping him pinned with his snout.

"Well, please tell _him_ to _get off!_ " Mycroft yelled at John.

" **I'm sorry, Mycroft."** Smaug suddenly said. It was the first words he'd said in front of Mycroft, so the look of astonishment on his face was perfectly understandable. John could imagine that he'd had a similar look when he'd first heard the gigantic dragon speak.

" **I'm sorry for all of this. I'm sorry that you had to go through that, and I'm sorry I just embarrassed you like that."**

* * *

Mycroft's mouth was opening and closing like a flounder. "W-what? You _talk_?"

The dragon, Smaug, chuckled. " **Please don't be surprised. As far as you were concerned five minutes ago, dragons don't exist at all. Is it really so shocking that I can talk?"**

"I was _unconscious_ five minutes ago." Mycroft snapped. "And I was having some downright _weird_ hallucinations, might I add." Mycroft added, thinking back to seeing Victor, Mary, and Moriarty in his haze.

 _There was something else, too._ Mycroft thought. _Something else came, and it saved me from dying. I… I can't remember what it was. It was big, and black, and it had such big eyes, but I don't remember what shape it was, or even the color of those eyes. Did it say anything? I don't remember. But it pushed me into the light._

" **I know."** The dragon said, a sadness entering his gaze, " **And I'm sorry."** Smaug nudged Mycroft into a sitting-up position and started rubbing his snout ever so gently and affectionately on Mycroft's chest. Not hard enough to push him over, but gentle enough to be sweet. " **I'm so sorry. I was so scared, Mycroft."** Smaug said with teary eyes. He started rubbing the side of his face against Mycroft's back. " **I thought you were** _ **dead**_ **. I thought you were dead, and it was all my fault."**

 _But… I don't even know you._ Mycroft thought. _So why would you care?_

* * *

The same thought was running through Molly Hooper's mind, too.

 _Why do you care about us? We've never met, yet you go into a rage and slaughter five people over me, calling me 'beautiful', calling me a 'treasure', calling me 'yours'. You saved John too, though you didn't have to kill anyone to do it. And Mycroft…_

Molly hadn't needed to see the look on the dragon's face when he had first laid eyes on Mycroft's unmoving body. She'd _felt_ the shock radiating off of him. The way his wings drooped, the way he exhaled, and stopped breathing when he saw it. He'd reached out and killed the three men responsible for it, but Molly didn't even think his mind registered it. His eyes never left Mycroft. And his _voice._ That sad, _heartbreaking_ voice! The wail of absolute world-shattering grief and despair when he'd thought that Mycroft was dead.

" _ **No, you can't die! You're not allowed to die! You're not allowed to leave me! Mycroft, I love you!"**_

 _You love him? You don't even know him. He didn't even know your name, until now._

The desperate nudging to try to rouse the unconscious form. Then the crying. Oh _God_ , the crying! It was enough to break Molly's heart. Smaug sobbed over Mycroft like he had just lost the most precious thing to him in the world.

When John started CPR, the dragon had backed up and let him. The spark of hope so bright in him. But as time passed, Molly watched his hope crumble. Smaug had looked like he would never be happy, again.

Then Moriarty's men tried one last attack, and if Molly had thought Smaug a demon when those men had nearly raped her, then he was surely the devil when he saw a group of the men who had ' _killed'_ Mycroft.

He'd screeched something at them before he'd incinerated them all. But it had been so loud and wild and _angry_ , that Molly had not understood what he had said.

And once the rage was gone, the sadness was back.

But then, a miracle! Mycroft was alive!

The dragon's reaction to _that_ certainly proved how much they meant to him.

The question was… _why?_

Smaug finally pulled back and away from Mycroft. He reached down with one spear-like talon and snapped the chain binding Mycroft's hands to the floor with one small flick of his claws. Like John and Molly, Mycroft still had cuffs around his wrists, but he was free.

"Thank you." Mycroft said, stretching and rubbing his wrists.

Smaug smiled and lowered his head back to the ground for them to climb up on. Molly and John started walking over to him, and Mycroft slowly stood up, wincing because of his injured ribs. Mycroft took one step though, and stopped.

"Wait." He said. Molly and John turned to look at him, and Smaug looked, too.

"M-my little brother." Mycroft said nervously. He was still on edge about the dragon, and wasn't sure about his temperament, yet. Molly didn't know, either. But he had not spoken sternly to them even once, yet.

"My brother, Sherlock. Moriarty has him locked up somewhere. He's hurting him. Both physically and psychologically. He's torturing him for information that he doesn't have. Please. _Please_ , save my brother, too. I don't even know where he is. But I love him so much. I… I don't tell him that, enough. In fact, I don't think I've ever said those exact words to him. So… please? Please, give me a chance to say those words to him. Just once. _Please_ save him. As a brother, I am begging you for mercy."

The dragon didn't say anything, at first. There was something in his eyes that Molly didn't recognize. Finally, the dragon spoke.

" **Yellowbeard is safe, Kraken."** He said at last.

Molly saw Mycroft's eyes widen to the size of saucers. Then, a smile spread across his face. "H-he is? Thank you! Thank you so much! Was it you? Did you save him?"

The dragon smiled. " **He saved himself."** Smaug replied. " **He called me, and I came to save you for him, because he cares so deeply about you three. He loves you all, so much. But** _ **he**_ **doesn't say it as much as he should, either."**

"Where is Sherlock, now?" John asked, sounding worried about his friend.

" **He's closer than you think."** Smaug replied, " **And I think you'll all see him, soon. He's going to be so happy to see you."** The dragon was smiling, but he looked so sad. Mycroft and John didn't seem to notice, though. Perhaps Molly was just imagining it.

Molly and John had to help poor Mycroft up because of his cracked ribs, and Smaug had to use one of his claws to help, too. Once the three of them were safe and secure, Molly on one side, John on the other, and Mycroft sandwiched between them, behind the rope in Smaug's horns, the dragon raised his head back up.

Smaug walked a little distance before his limbs started taking longer strides, and he was running. He was so fast! Smaug kicked off of the ground with his hind legs and spread his wings, taking flight with two powerful downstrokes. Molly didn't know how it was possible that a creature this big existed, much less how it was possible that it could _fly_. But she knew her eyes were not deceiving her. The cool wind rushed at her face, blowing at her hair. Molly grabbed the two sides of her ruined shirt, trying her best to keep it closed so that her bra wasn't showing. She was rather embarrassed about that. Smaug got into stride flying before he unexpectedly turned back around to the island.

 _What is he doing?_

Molly got her answer to that question when Smaug opened his mouth and set the rest of the island ablaze.

" **Let that be a reminder,"** Smaug murmured, " **To** _ **anyone**_ **who dares try to steal from me."**

Then, he turned back to the horizon. The sun was just beginning to rise, and Molly just knew that she was safe. She didn't know where they were going, but she was sure that Smaug would never lay a talon on them. And if he spoke the truth, then wherever they were going, Sherlock was waiting for them.

But… that did not answer the one question that was nagging Molly's mind to no end.

 _I've never met you, Smaug. So.._

 _Why do I think I know you?_


	6. VI: Sherlock!

No one really paid any attention to how long they flew. But it was in relative, comfortable silence. Smaug's wings pumped up and down every now and then, but he for the most part tried to just glide as much as possible. Likely to conserve his energy.

All there was for John, Mycroft, and Molly to do was hang on tight and watch as the island from whence they came got farther and farther away, the light from the fires getting smaller and smaller until it was out of sight altogether.

Soon, the sun began to rise over the horizon, chasing the darkness of the night away and changing the sky from black to a stunning mix of tangerine, pink, purple, and blue.

In John Watson's eyes, no sunrise had ever been more beautiful. For the sole reason that he was alive and well to see it.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" John asked aloud to no one in particular, enjoying the way the heat and the wind hit his skin all at once.

There was a chuckle from Smaug. " **It is beautiful, I suppose. If one takes the time to look."**

Silence.

"Mycroft, are you alright?" Molly asked.

"I-I'm f-f-fine." Mycroft said. John had been so busy admiring the view, he hadn't noticed Mycroft shivering violently right next to him. Smaug must have finally noticed, too.

" **You're cold."** Smaug declared. Everyone stopped talking when the dragon spoke. " **Of** _ **course**_ **you're cold."** He spoke in a tone that plainly said he was cursing himself on the inside for not noticing until now. " **You were dunked in ice water. And now you're in the wind, in** _ **Britain**_ **, no less, some few hundred feet in the air. Of** _ **course**_ **you're cold. You all probably are."**

John suddenly felt heat. Heat _radiating_ off of Smaug like a furnace. And there was smoke billowing out of his nose and the corners of his mouth. Had John been at the proper angle, he would have seen the dragon's chest glowing orange. Holding his fire, but not letting it out.

John instantly heard Mycroft groan/shudder, and Mycroft immediately snuggled closer to Smaug's body in an effort to warm himself. The heat _was_ welcome. By all three of them. It took away most of the pins and needles feeling from the cold, and it was slowly but surely drying off Mycroft's soaked clothes.

 _Where would we be without you, Smaug?_ John wondered. _Why are you doing this for us? Where did you come from? Who are you? How do you know Sherlock? And where is Sherlock, now?_

* * *

John, Mycroft, and Molly had absolutely no way of knowing just how hard providing that heat was for Sherlock.

The immediate danger was gone. His horde was safe. The adrenaline's effects were wearing off. He was starting to feel just how _tired_ he really was. And above all, the dragon… was no longer needed. He wanted to return to human form. He wanted to _rest_. He wanted to let the dragon disappear back into his mind palace and snuggle back under the mountain, back under the gold from whence it had come.

His muscles ached. His eyes kept trying to droop. He had to shake his head to stay focused. Every now and then, his wings faltered. He was starting to feel the aches and pains from his injuries, the ones he'd acquired from his days of being interrogated by Moriarty, and they were getting worse as he put more strain on his body to keep going. He tasted blood in his mouth, and knew it to be his own, for the blood of his enemies had been either swallowed or spat out long ago. _That's right. I have a split lip. In all of the chaos, I forgot about that._ And there were a lot more injuries on his body that he had ' _forgotten about_ ' _._

But worst of all, Sherlock could already tell that he was slowly getting smaller. He was willing himself to remain in the form of a dragon, which was drastically slowing down the effects of the change, but he was quite sure he was smaller than he had been when they had left the island. He had not gotten small enough that John, Molly, or Mycroft had noticed, yet. It was too slow. Too subtle. At least, if they had noticed, they had not yet said anything.

 _Come on, just a while longer. I can't let them see what I am! At least until we're safe back on the mainland so that we don't go falling into the ocean to drown,_ please _! You literally_ just _saved Mycroft from drowning! You can do it, Sherlock!_

So, he bit through the pain, and he kept going. It was all he could do. He just kept telling himself, _Keep going… keep going… for their sake, keep going…_

Finally, his sharp eyes saw land in the distance. Sherlock felt a wave of relief go through him at the sight of it, because it meant that he wouldn't have to fly for much longer. However, that wave of relief triggered the change and Sherlock cried out in pain as he felt his body suddenly start shrinking at an alarming rate. His bones were shrinking and shifting, and it _hurt!_ It hurt _so bad!_

His transformation _into_ a dragon was not very painful at all this time because he'd been too furious and worried about his beloved horde to notice the pain. The adrenaline had made it so that he hardly felt a thing. All he'd been focused on was pinning Moriarty down beneath his talons and torturing the desired information out of him in the slowest, most agonizing way possible.

But now, he was much calmer. The adrenaline was gone. There was nothing to dull the pain. When he changed back, there was no question that it was going to be absolutely excruciating. It was always painful, but his injuries from the days of interrogation he'd been through with Moriarty were going to make it much more painful than usual.

Sherlock got lucky. John, Mycroft, and Molly screamed when he started to fall, and he quickly snapped out of it. _Oh, no you don't!_ Sherlock righted himself in the air and just hovered in the air for a few moments, collecting himself.

"What the bloody hell was that?!" John exclaimed.

"Smaug, are you alright?!" Molly's voice asked him with unhidden concern.

" **I'm fine."** Sherlock replied. " **Just catching my breath, is all."**

 _I'm not going to last much longer. I have to keep going!_

Sherlock turned back towards the mainland and kept going as fast as he could. But he was quite sure his wingspan was a good forty or so feet shorter than it had been moments ago. And the rate at which he was shrinking had increased. And that did not go unnoticed.

"Smaug," Mycroft's voice said above. Sherlock grunted in response. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but are you… _smaller_ than you were a few minutes ago?"

Sherlock didn't reply. But he knew that was the same thing as saying ' _yes'_.

Sherlock kept going as fast as he could, and by some miracle, he made it.

He glided down the last stretch and landed not-so-gracefully on all fours in freezing cold water up to his forelegs just off of the coast. The seawater stung the little cuts and scrapes all over his limbs, Sherlock hissed through his teeth from the pain. Wanting to be out of the dirty, cold seawater as fast as possible, Sherlock walked the rest of the way to the sandy shore. His huge limbs made waves in the sea with each step. When Sherlock finally sank his claws into the cold, dry sand, it stuck to his wet feet and clung to his tail as it dragged across the beach. His body's heat would soon dry his wet limbs, he knew. And he would soon be free of the millions of loose grains adhering to his body.

On dry land at last, Sherlock finally took a proper look around. He almost immediately deduced that they had landed somewhere on the coastline in the less populated part of Norfolk, a county of England. They'd gotten fortunate. There was not a single human in sight. Had there been any humans around, panic would have surely ensued at the sight of the dragon.

Off in the distance, Sherlock could see the lights from a small town. If he wasn't mistaken, which he wasn't very often, it was Cley-next-the-sea, a small village with a population of only about four hundred, well known for its wildlife. Which meant he had probably landed on the edge of the Blakeney Point Nature reserve. Sherlock was immediately grateful that it was September. In another month, the beaches would be covered with breeding harbour and grey seals. Not only would they be hard to step around, they'd no doubt be impossible to keep quiet at the sight of him.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the sand and sleep for at least a week. But he still had his treasure to take care of. He'd gotten so small now, that the three of them sitting side by side took up the entire width of his head. His head was now about the size of a car. It had been the size of a double decker bus when they had left the island.

That, and although he was on land at last, he didn't like being out in the open like this. For all he knew, Moriarty already had choppers out looking for them. They needed cover, and they needed it quick.

The sand stuck uncomfortably to Sherlock's feet as he walked along the beach, looking for a cave or something. His tail swept across the sand behind him, covering his footprints. He didn't have to walk far before he spotted a cave in the side of one of the cliffs just ahead. The opening looked a little small for him to get into, but beggars could not be choosers, and it looked like he could probably squeeze through. Besides, he was slowly getting smaller by the second.

Sherlock made his way over to the cave opening and sniffed around it for any sign of danger. He didn't smell any animals or (more importantly) people inside, aside from the dull scent of bats, but it didn't smell like they had taken refuge in there for quite some time.

Sherlock cautiously stuck his nose inside and sniffed around some more before he deemed it safe. He stuck his whole head in and looked around. It was very dark inside, but he could see just fine with his dragon eyes. However, he knew that John, Mycroft, and Molly would not be able to see an inch in front of their faces in there. Plus, they would no doubt be very cold once he left to return to human form. He'd have to light a fire or something.

Sherlock pulled his head out of the cave and looked around. On top of the cliff where the cave was, there was the edge of a forest, and Sherlock could see one particular group of dry, leafless trees that were either dead, or not too far away from being so. Sherlock stood up on his hind legs abruptly, earning a little yell from his horde. He ignored them and grabbed one of the trees by the trunk with his teeth and ripped it out of the ground with one hard tug. He dropped it on the sand below before plucking yet another tree. _There, firewood_. He thought.

Sherlock hopped back down onto all fours and started to enter the cave. His head and shoulders fit easily, but he had to do some rather interesting things to get his wings to fit. And even once those were through, getting his haunches through was a bit of a squeeze. But, with one last tug and curse of, " **Oh, for God sakes!"** his hindquarters popped through the opening. After that, his tail was easy. Sherlock stuck his head out of the cave one last time to drag the trees into the cave before he messed up the sand outside with his tail to cover up the tracks. Then, _finally_ , he could rest.

* * *

Once they were out of sight inside the cave, Smaug finally let John, Mycroft, and Molly off of his head.

Molly was worried about Smaug.

He was smaller than he had been. Mycroft had been the first to notice it, but at this point, there was no denying it. He had to have been a _fourth_ the size he had been when she had first seen him, or smaller! The Smaug that had saved her from being raped would _never_ have been able to fit inside this cave. Not only that, but there was a sort of… sluggishness to his movements. Like he'd been drugged, or like he was sleepy. He didn't move with the same grace or regalness as before, and Molly had caught him wincing once or twice.

With a groan, Smaug laid down on his side like a giant housecat near the entrance to the cave. Molly could see it in his eyes, in his body, on his face. The dragon was _exhausted_ , but still trying to look strong for the three of them.

"Smaug, are you alright?" Molly asked. "You don't look good."

The dragon smiled at her, but that same sadness she had seen in his eyes before was still there. " **I'm alright, Molly."** He said. " **I'm just… a little tired, is all."**

"W-why a-a-are we h-h-here?" Mycroft shivered. "W-w-where's Sh-sh-sherlock?"

" **He's alright, and you'll see him, soon."** Smaug said gently. " **You're freezing, Mycroft. It's cold here, anyway. But you're still soaked. I'm nice and warm. Why don't you three come here and get warm? And do take that jacket and shirt off, Mycroft. You'll catch your death."**

Smaug beckoned Mycroft, John, and herself towards him with one talon. They weren't in any situation to argue, so the three of them walked over to the dragon, as he had asked. Mycroft removed his jacket, as the dragon had requested, but left his shirt on. He laid his jacket out on a rock nearby to hopefully dry. As soon as that was done, Smaug reached out with one of his huge wings and pulled the three of them close to his huge, warm body.

She should have been scared.

But she wasn't.

She should have been nervous.

But she wasn't.

Molly felt _safe_ with him. Completely and utterly _safe_. Maybe it was because for some reason, he reminded her of someone. But for the life of her, she couldn't think of who. Maybe it was because she'd seen what he could do. Maybe it was because she'd seen what he _would_ do. What he would do for her. For them.

 _How many people did he kill, tonight?_ Molly wondered. _I mean, they all deserved it. But the thought of a single creature being able to do all that is… scary. But at the same time,_ he's _not scary. I'm_ not _scared of him. I know I_ should _be, but for some reason, I_ can't _be. Who are you, Smaug?_

Mycroft was leaning against Smaug's belly, and John was against the dragon's wing. It sounded like the two were swapping stories. Still trying to piece together and understand exactly what had happened back at the island. Molly didn't feel like talking about it, just yet. She had other things on her mind, anyway. She ended up sitting right next to Smaug's forearm, snuggled up against his chest for warmth.

With each and every breath the dragon took, Molly could feel the _power_ coursing through his veins. He was _strong_. So strong. Molly had seen that strength in action, but she could feel it dormant inside him even when he was relaxed like this.

But despite how strong she knew he was, Molly was worried about him. He was now even smaller than he had been when they had landed on the beach. She didn't know why he was shrinking, and she didn't know why he suddenly seemed so _tired_. He seemed sad, too. As if he was dreading something terrible.

His head was laid down on the sand, and he was looking out of the mouth of the cave with half-lidded orange eyes.

His proportions were different, too.

Molly didn't know how she had not noticed.

His neck was noticeably shorter in comparison to his body. Molly just knew it was longer, before. The same went for his wings, his tail, the spines on his back, and his horns. He opened his mouth to yawn, and Molly saw that not only were his teeth duller and almost more square in shape, but his tongue was noticeably less forked, and it was pink in the middle rather than solid purple, as it had been.

 _Oh Smaug, what's happening to you?_

Molly gulped, gathering her courage.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Smaug suddenly stood up. Well, not _suddenly_ , per say. He didn't do it so roughly that he knocked anyone over, but it was still rather abrupt.

" **I have to go."** The dragon rumbled.

"Go? What's that supposed to mean?" John asked.

" **Itmens I have to go."** He slurred in an exhausted, dreary voice, walking closer to the mouth of the cave.

"No! No! You said you'd take us to Sherlock! Where's Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. And that, was an excellent question.

" **He'll be here soon, Mycroft."** Smaug turned and with a small puff of fire right over their heads, he lit one of the trees he'd dragged into the cave ablaze, leaving the other one untouched. John, Mycroft, and Molly instinctively ducked in alarm. Molly felt the heat from the flames as they flew over her wash down on her like a tidal wave, warm and lovely.

" **There, now you won't be cold. There's a village not too far from here. Shouldn't be too hard to find civilization. You're all smart. Sherlock will join you, soon. But he's in… rough shape."**

"Smaug, _you're_ in rough shape! There's no way you're going anywhere like that! You're barely standing!" John yelled at him.

" **What're you talking about, John? I'm…"** Smaug's eyes drooped, and he shook his head just to stay awake. His body started to sway on his shaky legs. " **Fine."** Molly knew the dragon was going down a moment before his legs gave out beneath him and he collapsed onto the floor of the cave. Molly and Mycroft moved out of the way just in time to avoid getting crushed. He was so _big_ , that Molly felt the vibrations of his body hitting the floor when he landed.

"Smaug! Are you alright?!" Molly asked.

The dragon wasn't unconscious. He tried getting up, but his front legs gave out before he was even standing and he fell right onto one of his shoulders. His body landing on the ground with a ' _thud'_. He yelped and whimpered, and Molly just _knew_ he was in pain.

That was when she finally noticed them.

How had she not seen them before?

The _wounds_!

The scrapes.

The cuts.

The bruises.

All over him.

 _Oh, Smaug. Oh, Smaug! You poor, poor creature! Did you fight, even in this state?! Did you fly, even in this state?! What happened to you?!_

John and Mycroft started to step forwards, but Molly held and arm out to stop them.

"Molly-"

"John." Molly said sternly.

"Miss Hooper, really-"

"Mycroft." Molly said even more sternly.

The two of them got the message, and they both looked at each other and took a step back.

Molly lowered her arm again, took a deep breath, and began to approach the frightened, injured creature.

"Smaug?"

He was shaking all over. His eyes were wide with fear and horror. He was now so small, that Molly had to kneel down to look him in the eye with his head laid down on the sand. He was still huge, keep in mind. His head was still about the same size as a T-Rex's skull that she'd seen at a museum, once. But each of his _eyes_ , alone had been bigger than she was when they had left the island. There was no denying that he had shrunk. He was muttering to himself, and it took Molly a moment to realize what he was saying.

" **I… I'm not going to make it. I'm not going to make it…"**

"Smaug?" Molly asked, gently, placing a hand gingerly on his snout.

Her touched snapped Smaug out of his daze, and he looked at her with those wide amber orbs.

" **What is it, Molly?"** He asked. His voice was soft, gentle, and laced with caution. Molly knew right then, that he was even more frightened than they were.

"Smaug, are you alright?" She asked, keeping her voice gentle, "I know you keep saying you're alright, but you're not. I know you're not. "

" **Of course I'm okay, Molly. Why do you ask?"**

"Don't do that." Molly snapped.

Smaug looked perplexed. " **Don't do what?"**

"Say you're okay even if you're not. Because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you. I've had to say those very words to a friend, once before. And he wasn't okay, either. _Talk to me_ , Smaug. We're friends, aren't we? I owe you my _life_ , Smaug. _Please_ let me help you."

Smaug paused at those words, then a sparkle entered his eyes, the corners of his mouth tilted upwards, and he suddenly looked so _happy_. He leaned forwards towards her and pressed his muzzle against her legs, sniffing and nuzzling her affectionately. Molly ran her hand over the scales on his head, gently. Scratching ever so lightly. They were surprisingly soft, but Molly knew that even like this, his hide was bulletproof. And now that Smaug was a bit smaller, he wasn't so big that he shoved her any when he tried to be affectionate, as he had done with Mycroft. No, this was just… sweet.

After a few moments, he finally stopped and looked up at her with a look of tenderness and absolute adoration.

" **God, you're beautiful."** He murmured. And the way he said it, Molly knew that he truly believed that. " **Inside and out, you're beautiful."** The dragon chuckled. " **I've wasted so much time. I see everything. It is my blessing and my curse. But** _ **God**_ **, I must have been** _ **so**_ **blind.** _ **Why**_ **didn't I see it before? Why did the situation have to be so dire that I thought I was going to lose you, before I finally saw how beautiful you are, Molly Hooper?"**

Molly had never felt so confused in all her life. Both mentally, and emotionally. Because for some reason, she just knew… she had met this dragon, before. She didn't know when or how, but she _knew_ him! And she _felt something_ for him.

"Who- who are you, Smaug?" She asked. "Why do you say these things? Why do you _do_ these things? And _why_ do I feel like… I know you from somewhere?"

Smaug opened his mouth to talk, but his eyes widened and he suddenly cried out in pain, his body going into convulsions. Molly jumped back, out of the way. It only lasted a few seconds, but when the dragon was finally still again, his breath labored, whimpering from the aftershocks, he was even smaller than before. His horns, his wings, his tail, all shorter, and his spines were almost completely gone, disappearing back into his back.

John and Mycroft moved to come forward, but Molly waved her arm at them to stay back.

"S-Smaug?"

The dragon exhaled. He looked… so tired, but he still had that happy gleam in his eye.

"Are you… are you dying?" She asked, scratching him gently on the head. And she was surprised to find that her throat was getting tight, and her voice cracking at the suggestion.

" **No,"** He sighed, " **But I feel like I am."**

Molly felt her eyes getting watery, because she didn't completely believe him.

"You're a hero, Smaug." She sniffed. "You know that, don't you? You saved us. You saved me. So if you die, here. I… just want you to know that. If anything, you're _my_ hero."

Smaug chuckled, sounding genuinely amused.

" **Don't cry. Shhh… And don't make people into heroes, Molly. That includes dragons, too. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them."**

Molly suddenly heard a choked, strangled gasp from behind her. She turned around. John's eyes bulged, a tear suddenly fell down his cheek, and he was staring right at Smaug. His mouth was slack in shock, and he was frozen. Absolutely frozen.

Smaug saw the look on John's face, and his smile grew even wider.

" **So,"** The dragon sighed, " **You finally figured it out."**

Smaug's voice snapped John out of it enough for his legs to start moving. John staggered over to where Molly was kneeling in front of the dragon, his gaze never leaving Smaug, once.

 _What? What did you figure out, John?_

"John? John, what is it?" Molly stood up and placed a hand on her friend's shoulder, but he jerked away from her and fell on his knees in front of Smaug, staring at him in absolute shock, tears falling freely and sobs escaping his throat.

Smaug chuckled. " **You've always been so much more clever than I give you credit for, Dr. Watson. Though, I was beginning to think Molly would be the one to fit the pieces together, first. I know she was the first one to notice something familiar about me."**

A sob escaped John, and he brought up a hand to cover his mouth.

" **Go on, John** _ **Hamish**_ **Watson. I** _ **know**_ **you know. I can see it in your eyes. So go ahead. There's nothing holding you back.** _ **Say it**_ **. Please. I** _ **want**_ **you to."**

John didn't say anything.

" **Come on, John. Say it!"**

Still, nothing.

" **You know who I am, John!** _ **Say it!**_ "

John swallowed to stop his crying and sniffed. The hand on his mouth left and reached out with shaking fingers to finally touch the dragon. His hand, so small compared to the dragon's tyrannosaur-sized head, came to rest on Smaug's snout. And for a moment or two, they just stared at each other, the emotions being passed between them far too great for any writer to put into words.

Finally, with a shuddering breath, John Watson quietly uttered a single word. And not just any word, a _name_.

"Sherlock?"

Molly felt her heart stop.

And all of the pieces suddenly snapped into place.

 _He called me_ his _Molly._

" _ **I promise, I'd never hurt you, Molly Hooper. Not on purpose. Never ever on purpose."**_ _Sherlock said almost exactly the same thing the night after the Sherrinford incident and the phone call!_

" _ **It saddens me that you think so lowly of yourself. Because in my eyes, you are a colorful koi in a sea of plain,**_ **ordinary** _ **goldfish…"**_ _ORDINARY! GOLDFISH! Those are both Holmes expressions! Sherlock and Mycroft both use them all the time!_

 _He hesitated when he first told me his name!_

 _The sarcasm!_

 _His intelligence!_

 _That voice!_

 _John_ Hamish _Watson! Only a handful of close friends know John's middle name!_

 _His grief and rage when he thought Mycroft was dead._

" _ **Yellowbeard is safe, Kraken."**_ _Those are childhood nicknames! Only a select few would know them and one of those people is… Sherlock!_

" _ **He saved himself. Then he called me, and I came to save you… because he cares so deeply about you three. And he doesn't say it as much a he should, either."**_ _Sherlock broke_ himself _out of Moriarty's grip. But he didn't call Smaug, he_ is _Smaug! Smaug_ is _Sherlock!_

" _ **He's closer than you think. And I think you'll all see him, soon. He's going to be so happy to see you."**_ _We've been staring at him the whole time! He was_ already _happy to see us! It's Sherlock!_

 _That face! Those cheekbones! He even_ looks _like… like…_

 _Sherlock!_

 _SHERLOCK!_

" **There,"** Smaug- no, _Sherlock_ rumbled. He closed his eyes. Those big, beautiful amber eyes. When he opened them, they were the same icy blue that Molly had fallen so helplessly, unconditionally in love with. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Sherlock muttered, a small smile on his face. His voice was… different. It wasn't big and deep and powerful as it had been. It sounded exactly like… Sherlock.

"Oh my God…" Molly heard Mycroft exclaim softly behind her, his voice shocked.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Molly stuttered.

Sherlock looked at her and started to say her name, but he broke it off with a roar. John and Molly jumped back as the dragon jumped to his feet, howling and wailing with pain.

"Sherlock!" "Sherlock!" "Sherlock!" The three of them kept yelling, not knowing what was going on and worried about the man- the _dragon_ that they all loved so much.

Sherlock beat his wings and wailed. Molly could see him shrinking faster and faster, his tail disappearing into his body, the shape of his legs changing, his wings disappearing into his arms, horns vanishing into his skull and being replaced with thick black curls, head changing size, scales turning into skin and cloth, spines shrinking and disappearing into his spine on his back, talons turning into fingers with nails.

It didn't take long for the roaring and yelping to turn into human screams of agony. Molly felt her heart twist in anguish at the sound. _Human_ arms wrapped around a toned _human_ torso. _Human_ tears fell down a _human_ face. And Sherlock Holmes stood, wearing clothes that had been reduced to nothing but rags, barefoot in the sand, whimpering with pain, biting his bottom lip to try and keep quiet as his body made the last few subtle changes to his bone structure and the last few red scales vanished, turning into pale skin.

And then… it was quiet.

The only sound was Sherlock's hard, heavy breathing, and the distant crashing of the waves on the shore. His chest was still faintly glowing orange, and steam rose from his flesh. His black dress pants were in tatters, hanging loosely from his hips. His white dress shirt was ripped open in the front, exposing his broad, pale chest. His sleeves were missing from the elbow down, revealing his strong, toned arms. Molly could see his chest contracting and relaxing with each breath. She could see his toned stomach, the muscles on his legs where his pant legs were gone from the knee down.

In short, it was the _sexiest_ damn thing Molly had ever seen.

But… his lip was split, he had a black eye, his body was battered with black, blue, and green bruises. Shallow cuts were scattered all over his arms, his legs, his chest, and there was one on his forehead and one on his cheek, the one opposite to the side with the back eye.

He looked like he had been through hell.

 _Torture._ Molly's heart clenched at the realization. _They tortured him before he got here, and he still fought. He fought so hard. Oh, Sherlock!_

Sherlock's head slowly turned, and his unfocused blues moved hazily between the three of them. The corners of his mouth turned upwards in a small smile, revealing white teeth that were still fangs. He looked like he was about to fall over, but he looked so… _happy_.

"J-John..." He muttered. An arm reached out towards them, and a leg moved to try and approach. "M-Molly… My… croft."

But Sherlock was done. His legs gave out under him, and he collapsed onto the sand face-first with a dull ' _thump_ '.

For Molly, that broke the spell.

* * *

Sherlock saw it on John's face. The wide, shocked, horror-filled brown eyes, the open mouth, the tears welling up. The exact second that everything finally clicked in John Watson's brain, the look on his face said it all, and Sherlock knew without a shadow of a doubt: _He knows._

And for some reason, though he'd been dreading it, Sherlock was suddenly very happy. It was like a weight lifted off of his tired shoulders that after all these years, _someone_ knew his little secret at last. Sherlock suddenly wanted some more of that weight gone, so Sherlock was surprised to actually find himself _urging_ John to reveal it to them. Just… to get it over with, he supposed.

He was glad when John finally said it. It seemed to take all of the tension left in Sherlock away. And he saw it on Molly's face, and on Mycroft's face, that it clicked for them, too as soon as John said it.

But that took the rest of Sherlock's stress away, as well as his last reason to remain in dragon form.

The pain hit him suddenly and without warning as fast and hard as a speeding eighteen wheeler.

When it was over, it left Sherlock in an exhausted, confused haze. And nothing registered or mattered except for the three worried, frightened faces staring at him that kept going in and out of focus, one by one.

 _John, Mycroft, Molly, Mycroft, John, Molly, Mycroft, Molly, John…_

All Sherlock wanted to do was be close to them, where he could _protect_ them.

But his body was done. And his mind wasn't too far off, at the moment. It just couldn't take any more. Sherlock felt himself fall, and it seemed to last forever.

 _Reichenbach seemed to last forever, too_. Sherlock found himself thinking, _You do have a tendency to throw me over the edge, to make me fall, don't you, Moriarty?_

As Sherlock's body hit the ground, his eyes closed of their own accord. Inside his mind palace, the dragon made its way through winding corridors. It passed the room where Sherlock played with Redbeard when he was sad or stressed, and the room where he talked with Mary whenever he had questions about his own feelings. He paused in front of the door where Sherlock had Moriarty locked away in a padded cell. His eyes narrowed and he growled softly in the back of his throat. The dragon was still angry. _Sherlock_ was still angry. The consulting criminal would _never_ be forgiven for his sins. But, that could be taken care of, later. The dragon was exhausted. _Sherlock_ was exhausted. Smaug finally made his way down into the deepest, darkest part of Sherlock's mind palace. Back under the mountain, the dragon finally sank his claws into the treasure. He buried himself beneath the gold at last, king under the mountain, and closed his eyes. At rest and at peace, until he would be needed, again.

Out in the real world, Sherlock decided the sand was… comfortable. But the hands that suddenly rolled him over onto his back, the arms that wrapped around him, and the _beautiful_ face staring down at him were _so much better_. Then John was there, too. And Mycroft. And their voices were calling his name over and over, saying "Stay with me!" and hands were shaking him gently, touching and checking him all over for injuries. They'd find plenty, Sherlock was sure. Moriarty had made sure of that.

But Sherlock didn't really care.

Sherlock was so exhausted that his mind wasn't even all there. He was pretty much just saying everything that came to mind, aloud. His emotional filters were shut off. And his words were slurred, not coming out right.

"M-mycroft?" He said.

"What is it, brother?" His brother's voice was cracking.

"Do you remember… when you told me… that I thought myself a dragon slayer?"

Mycroft sniffed. "Of course… I do."

"I've never thought that." Sherlock said. "Because I'm not a dragon slayer, Mycroft… I'm a dragon."

"We know." Mycroft said.

"So why're you crying… for a monster?" He slurred softly. The faces were still going in and out of focus, but he could see the tears.

 _John Watson is crying, buckets and buckets. Don't cry, John._

 _Molly… don't cry, Molly._

"No! Don't you _dare_ think that, Sherlock! You're not a _monster_ , you're my _best friend_!" John cried.

"Don't be _ridiculous_ , of course you're not a monster, Sherlock." Mycroft said. He wasn't falling apart like the other two were, but Sherlock could see him starting to lose it. There was a slight tremor to his voice.

"I'm… n-not?" Sherlock asked. Where was the hate that all men shared for dragons? Where was the fear? Where were the looks of betrayal he'd been expecting?

"Of course you're not! Why would you _ever_ think such a thing?" Molly asked.

The feeling of joy that suddenly came over Sherlock was greater and stronger than anything he'd ever felt.

 _You don't hate me._

 _You're not afraid of me._

 _You saw what I am._

 _You saw what I did._

 _You know what I can do._

 _But you don't think I'm a monster._

 _You don't care that I'm a dragon._

"Of course we don't." Molly said. "We're your friends, and Mycroft is your family. Of course it doesn't matter that you're a dragon."

Sherlock realized then, that he had said all of that out loud.

A wide grin stretched itself across his face, and Sherlock couldn't have taken it off if he'd tried. "How'd this asshole ever get so lucky?" He asked aloud, to no one in particular.

"Oh, Sherlock." She said, wiping her tears. But a fresh wave of sobs started up. "Sherlock, what did they do to you?!"

Sherlock smiled dreamily. "I'm a lil' beat up, aren't I?" He laughed. "I'm a'right, Mully." He said, trying to reassure her, "I'm jus' tired is all. I think I'll take a nap for a few minutes. Then I'll be okay."

" _No_! No, no, no Sherlock! Don't you _dare_ close your eyes! Stay with me!" John cried, voice cracking, _pleading_.

"What'd I jus' say, John?" Sherlock slurred. "I'm not _dying_ , just sleepy is all."

Sherlock felt soft, delicate fingers, fingers shaped just like his own, grab his hand and squeeze gently. Sherlock used some of the little strength he had left in him and squeezed back.

"M-Myc?"

Sherlock heard his big brother sniff. He saw him rubbing the tears from his eyes. He heard the shudder in his breath when he inhaled to speak.

"It's- it's okay now, brother mine. You're going to be okay. We'll get you to a hospital, and I'll cover this whole thing up. No one will ever know but us that you're a dragon, and we won't tell anyone. Everything will go back to the way it was, before."

Sherlock could remember saying something similar when _Mycroft_ had been beaten black and blue in the hospital after _he'd_ almost died. _My, how the tables have turned_.

"You're _crying_ , Mycroft!" Sherlock teased. "I knew it… I knew you weren't an _Iceman_. Nope. You're just a biiiiiiig sssssoftie."

Mycroft smiled and shook his head. "Asshole."

"Fatty."

And Mycroft laughed. But he broke it off with a sob, and he sniffed.

"Mycroft… do you remember… when you said… that my loss would break your heart?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded.

"I choked on my cigarette, and I said… ' _What the hell am I supposed to say to that?'_ " Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at the memory. "Do you remember that, brother?"

Mycroft nodded.

"I… wish I'd said… ' _Yours would break mine, too.'_ "

That, was the straw that finally broke the camel's back. Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's hand and brought it up to press his forehead against it while he cried softly. Mycroft's tears fell and landed on Sherlock's arms. The salt stung the wounds, there. But Sherlock didn't mind.

"Just… _please_ be alright, Sherlock. _Please_ don't leave me!" There was no hiding the pleading in his voice.

"I told you, I'm not dying. I'm just… sleepy." Sherlock weezed.

"Why, Sherlock? Why would you fight in this state? You knew how badly injured you were, but you still fought! _Why_?" Molly asked.

 _Molly_ …

Sherlock couldn't hide or deny his feelings for her, anymore.

Mustering all of his strength, Sherlock raised the arm that Mycroft wasn't holding. His shaking fingers reached up to cup the side of Molly's beautiful face. Her tears were still falling, and the salt stung the open wounds on his hands and his arm. But Sherlock didn't mind. Not at all. His thumb brushed a tear from her soft cheek.

"You are _sssssooooo_ beautiful." He muttered.

Her eyes dilated. A tear fell.

"You're… one of the ones that matters the most… you- you always have been. I've _always_ trusted you."

Then, finally, he said it.

"I love you."

That's when the darkness crept in, the remainder of his strength left him, and Sherlock's hand fell limp from the side of Molly's face.

"Sherlock? SHERLOCK!" Molly screamed.

"You're alive… you're _safe_. Don't you see? That's all that matters to me." He murmured softly.

As their voices calling his name fell silent and his eyes closed, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and King under the Mountain, fell into a deep, restful slumber, in the warm embrace of the treasure that he loved so much, just as the great dragon Smaug the Terrible had so very, very long ago. The voices of those he loved the most sobbing and screaming his name around him.

" _Sherlock!"_


	7. VII: Awoke

" _You're alive… you're safe. Don't you see? That's all that matters to me." He murmured softly._

 _As their voices calling his name fell silent and his eyes closed, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and King under the Mountain, fell into a deep, restful slumber, in the warm embrace of the treasure that he loved so much, just as the great dragon Smaug the Terrible had so very, very long ago. The voices of those he loved the most sobbing and screaming his name around him._

" _Sherlock!"_

* * *

When Sherlock went limp, Mycroft was sure that something in him broke. He remembered what he'd said to his little brother back when he'd been 'banished', It seemed like so long ago, now.

 _Your loss would break my heart._

Mycroft was not lying that day.

The feeling, the ugly, black, twisted, _horrible_ feeling creeping across his whole body, coming from his chest and settling in his stomach, could only be described as his heart breaking.

Unlike most people, Mycroft could count on only one hand the number of people he loved. He loved his parents, he loved Euros, he loved Anthea… and then there was Sherlock. _Sherlock._ William Sherlock Scott Holmes. His little brother.

From the sweet little boy who had loved to play pirates with him when they were little, to the strong, brave, wise man who loved to play deductions with him even though they were all grown up.

His parents had loved him since _before_ he was born, and Mycroft of course loved them, too. They were his _parents_. Of course he loved them, as bothersome as they could be sometimes.

Though their relationship was still on shaky ground, Mycroft did love his sister. Nothing would ever be 'good' between them, but he had done what he'd done for both her safety and the safety of all of Britain. And it was difficult for him to even look at her without thinking about the Sherrinford incident.

Anthea had known him for so long that of all the goldfish in the world, she was the only one who came close to truly understanding him and the way his mind worked. Mycroft didn't even think his _parents_ knew him as well as Anthea did at this point. Then there was the fact that she was his girlfriend to consider.

And then, there was Sherlock. Sherlock was different. Mycroft loved his brother more than he had ever loved anyone, and more than he ever _would_ love anyone. His parents were fine, he could never have a normal or civilized conversation with Euros (even more so now because she had gone mute), and as well as Anthea understood him, and as much as he loved her… they weren't Sherlock. Sherlock was the only one who, like him, didn't just see, but _observed_ the world around him. And with no other person did Mycroft share more good, happy memories.

Getting to hold Sherlock for the first time when he was brought home from the hospital. Mycroft had been only seven at the time, but a prodigy for his age. Mycroft remembered thinking just how _amazing_ the little one in his arms was. No one in the whole wide world was more genetically similar to Mycroft than Sherlock was. At the time, Mycroft Holmes was the only one in the world that knew how to deduce, but he swore to himself right then and there that he'd show Sherlock how to see the world the way he did. Sherlock was not a calm baby in the slightest. He looked all about, squirmed if you tried to hold him, got frustrated and angry all the time, and seemed to despise the entire concept of _sharing_ with a passion. But Mycroft loved that little boy more than anything else in the world.

Sherlock, age 1 year, eight months. Stumbling, but still _walking_ into Mycroft's outstretched arms for the first time after months of frustration. Mycroft remembered hugging his brother tight, so proud he thought he'd burst, grinning wide, and saying, "Well done, brother mine." Things were different between them after that day. For the next few months, Sherlock was calm only when Mycroft was around. It took a bit longer for him to warm up to his parents.

Teaching him how to deduce.

Sherlock's first day of school.

Sherlock's first playdate with Victor. Mycroft couldn't lie, he'd been a bit jealous of Sherlock's new friend. But he was happy for his baby brother. Still, just because Sherlock had a new friend didn't mean that Mycroft wasn't allowed to play.

" _Mycwoft, Wedbeard and I are gunna pway piwates! Do you wanna pway wif us?"_ Who could possibly say no to that sweet little face?

Sherlock slowly being able to deduce all by himself.

Protecting Sherlock from Euros.

Redbeard's death and the turmoil that followed.

Sherlock getting into drugs.

Sherlock graduating.

Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective.

Sherlock, playing deductions.

Sherlock smoking with him.

Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_!

All of this went through Mycroft's brain in the awful, heart-wrenching few moments, before John Watson's face suddenly changed. A smile split across the former army doctor's face, and he started to giggle, shaking his head.

"What. The _bloody hell_. Are you _laughing at_ , John?" Molly asked in the tone of someone ready to commit murder. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was hugging Sherlock close to her, his cheek pressed against hers, her face buried in his shoulder as she sobbed.

"That _drama queen_! That bloody… fucking… _drama queen!_ "

"John Watson, Sherlock is _dead_. My brother… is _dead_. What the _fuck_ is so funny about _any_ of this? You have exactly two seconds to explain yourself before I break your jaw." Mycroft said dangerously. He knew good and damn well that between the two of them, John would most likely kick Mycroft's ass all the way to Scotland. But the grief was bringing out more aggression than Mycroft's brain could rationalize or control.

"What's funny… what's funny is that he's _not_. He's _not_ dead!" John said happily, his face lit up like a freaking Christmas tree.

That was when Mycroft noticed that John had taken Sherlock's other hand, the one Mycroft wasn't holding, and his thumb was pressed down on Sherlock's pulse point. Immediately, Mycroft took the hand he was holding and pressed his fingers down on the same spot. His stomach sank. He felt nothing. There was no… _wait!_ That was a heartbeat!... Another one!

" _Forty five_ beats per minute. That's impossible. The average human heart beat is between sixty and a hundred bpm. There's no way he's still alive with his heart beating this slowly. And he's not _breathing_." Molly said.

And at the perfect moment, as if to say, ' _yes I am'_ , Sherlock inhaled. _Everyone_ jumped. It was one slow, deep inhale, and one slow, deep exhale. Then he was still.

No one moved for a few seconds. Two… Three. Four. Another breath. Just as slow and deep as the first.

"Guys… I have a theory. And this is going to sound _incredibly_ stupid." John said.

"We were rescued by a dragon that turned into Sherlock. I'm willing to believe anything at this point." Mycroft said.

"I think that he's somehow put himself into a state like animals do when they're hibernating. Or like a coma or something." John said.

" _Why_ does that make sense?" Mycroft asked.

"The human body will sometimes shut itself down in moments of extreme stress. I think that's what Sherlock did. People have _woken up_ on autopsy tables before. It's never happened to me, but I've heard stories of it happening." Molly said.

"This is actually a good thing." John said.

" _How_ is this a good thing?" Mycroft asked.

"We have no idea how extensive Sherlock's external or internal injuries are, but they're bad enough that he collapsed as soon as his adrenaline wore off. If he's not conscious, he's not _moving_ , therefore he's not making them worse. That, and he's not in any pain. Both of those are good things." THe former army doctor explained.

Everyone was silent for a few seconds as it sank in.

 _Sherlock is alive_. Mycroft felt that awful feeling leave him, replaced by a bubbly, relieved sensation in his stomach that made a wide grin appear on his face.

 _He's going to be okay. He has to get to a hospital. But chances are, he's going to be okay._

"You're right, Doctor Watson." Mycroft didn't know when he'd started to giggle, but it wouldn't stop. "He _is_ a drama queen."

Then, all three of them were giggling. And it only got worse. Within seconds, the three of them were laughing like _hyenas_. It was excruciating with Mycroft's already cracked ribs, but he couldn't stop. Besides, despite the pain, it felt _good_ to laugh! It wasn't even that anything was particularly funny, it was the kind of uncontrollable laughter that results from one narrowly escaping death. The, " _Holy shit,_ I'm _alive. Holy shit,_ no one died _!"_ sort of laughter that was born both as a result of the sheer number of times the three of them had narrowly escaped death in the past few hours, and from the fact that Sherlock wasn't dead. Sherlock was _alive_! And if John's guess was correct, then chances were, he was going to be just fine!

* * *

The fire that Sherlock had lit before returning to human form and then passing out was more than enough. It didn't take long for the majority of the cave to be nice and warm. There wasn't much they could do about the draft that came in from the cave entrance, but no one was complaining. As soon as everyone was settled, they all waited.

Molly had no way of knowing how long they waited. And it didn't need to be said what, or more accurately, who, they were waiting for.

It was an unspoken fear: that Moriarty's men were coming for them at any second.

An hour passed, maybe two. That was when John left.

"Sherlock needs a hospital. And so do you, Mycroft." John said when they tried to argue with him.

It didn't take much convincing from John to get Molly and Mycroft to agree, but once Mycroft thought about it for a moment, he made another interesting point.

"Sherlock _decimated_ Moriarty's forces. They're too busy licking their own wounds to worry about us." The elder Holmes brother said. "For all we know, Sherlock _killed_ Moriarty while he was escaping. Besides, even if Moriarty _is_ alive, he doesn't know that _Smaug_ changed back into Sherlock… He'd be _stupid_ to chase after _Smaug_."

No one could come up with a logical argument for that. As to the reason why _John_ left, it was simple.

A: The trek to the village was quite a hike. Mycroft had multiple cracked ribs and was never a very mobile person, anyway. Plus, he was still wet, though not as much so as before, so it would be cruel to make him make the trip. Sherlock had wanted Mycroft to be warm. He'd even remained in dragon form longer than he should have just to share body heat with his big brother. Mycroft was simply in no condition to go.

B: Presentation. They were _all_ dirty, with soot, ash, and rubble covering them all from head to toe. But Mycroft was also _wet_ , and poor Molly had nothing descent to wear. Her shirt was ripped open, mind you. The boys kept having to awkwardly look away when they accidentally got a glimpse of her bra. So between the three of them, John was the most presentable.

C: If John ran into trouble, being a former soldier _and_ Sherlock's partner on the vast majority of his cases, John was the best fighter out of the three of them. Therefore, he was the most likely one to make it out on top and in one piece from said trouble.

All of these events had led up to Molly being where she was, now. Sitting as close to the cave entrance as possible while also being within the ring of heat from the bonfire, keeping watch for John's return or (hopefully not) Moriarty's men.

Being Sherlock's brother and still being soaked, Molly had told Mycroft to stay close to Sherlock and the fire until he dried off, and that they could switch off later. Out of courtesy, Mycroft had tried to argue. But unfortunately for him, Molly had plenty of experience dealing with a stubborn Holmes. Mycroft didn't stand a chance. Molly won the argument in less than thirty seconds.

But that was a while ago. For now, she was lost in thought.

" _You are so beautiful. You're one of the ones that matters the most. You always have been. I've always trusted you… I love you."_

Sherlock had told her he'd loved her. She was _positive_ he'd been talking to her. Not all three of them. Not Mycroft, not John, _her_. Molly's logical side was telling her not to believe him. How many times had he used her to get what he wanted? How long had he known she was in love with him, but he had done _nothing_ to indicate he returned those feelings?

 _Why did you have to chose the moment before you passed out to tell a girl something like that?_

But despite everything in the past… Molly believed him.

His hand had been so soft… so gentle. And those eyes… Sherlock had looked at her with a look of absolute adoration. The only word she could use to describe the emotion behind those icy blues was love. _Love_. Sherlock loved her.

Molly shook her head at herself.

 _Molly, you_ idiot _!_

 _Sherlock, hugging her tight like she'd slip away on the night after the Sherrinford incident. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. I hurt you. I'd never hurt you, Molly. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. I thought I was going to lose you. I was so scared. I'm sorry…"_

 _What are you thinking?!_

 _Smaug- no,_ Sherlock _, slaughtering the men who would have been her rapists. Sniffing her all over._

 _He was checking to see if I was hurt._ Molly realized, now.

 _Sherlock, thanking God that he'd been there in time to save her. Sherlock, apologizing for frightening her. Sherlock, promising that he'd never hurt her. Calling her beautiful._

 _I didn't know that he was Sherlock at the time._ Molly realized. _He was flirting with me, but he wasn't trying to get anything from me. He just wanted to protect me. He just wanted me to feel safe._

" _And Molly, I swear to any deity that might be listening, I am going to_ kiss _you once this is over!"_

That sentence had slipped Molly's mind in all the chaos. But it was yet another indication that Sherlock loved her.

" _I love you."_

Sherlock loved her. He was _in_ love with her. She was in love with him, and had been for years. And he loved her back. Molly was positive. She smiled.

"Molly." Mycroft's voice nearly made her jump out of her skin.

"Mycroft. It's you. Sorry." Molly chuckled at her own silliness.

"No, the fault is mine. I apologize for startling you."

"It's alright. Nothing to apologize for. What is it?"

"You've been out here for awhile, and I'm dry now. The only polite thing to do would be to keep watch for awhile and let the lady go inside."

Mycroft was indeed dry, and because he'd been wet _and_ hadn't been exposed to the rubble and chaos for as long, he was cleaner than Molly or John. Though his hair, usually so well groomed, was a certified disaster.

Molly smiled and stood up. "Thank you, Mycroft."

Molly stood up and started to walk towards the fire, but Mycroft's next words stopped her.

"Something's troubling you." It was said as a statement, not a question. Holmeses, always so sure.

For a moment, Molly considered just walking away. But she also knew that no one knew Sherlock better than Mycroft. Not even John.

So, she found herself saying, "He said… he loved me."

Mycroft hesitated, as though looking for the right words. "And his past behavior has led you to question that?" The elder Holmes finally asked.

"Well… it's silly, really. But… some of the things he said as Smaug, Mycroft. And the look on his face. I… I think I believe him. I think he loves me. I just- I just don't know _why_. Or _when_? How long has he been in love with me? Why hasn't he told me until… _now_ of all times? I _think_ he loves me. But… I'm just so confused."

Mycroft chuckled, but not in an amused way. As heartless as the Holmeses tried to be, Mycroft seemed to understand. "One thing that Sherlock and I have always struggled with is feelings. We don't interpret things quite the same way as ' _normal'_ people, and that sometimes makes things, in relationships particularly, _difficult_. We either don't feel something that anyone else would, or we do feel it, and we react to it differently. Then, sometimes on rare occasions, we _do_ feel something… and have absolutely no idea how to express it or what to do about it or how to react to it. Do you follow?"

Molly nodded. "That does sound like Sherlock."

"Good. Now, as to the question of whether or not Sherlock loves you… _yes_. I believe he does. More than you or even he knows."

He gave her a moment to let it sink in, then continued.

"I realized that he was in love with you during the Sherrinford incident. The phone call, specifically."

Oh, that was right. Molly had almost forgotten that Mycroft and John had both been on the other side of the line that day, watching in terror and praying for Molly to just say the bloody words so that her flat didn't explode.

"Truthfully, I believe that was the day that Sherlock himself realized to the extent that he was in love with you. He may have had a bit of a crush, or an infatuation with you that he didn't understand until that day. There was an instance where you two solved a small case together, correct?"

Again, Molly nodded.

"I think he was in love with you even then. He just didn't realize it until he thought he was going to lose you. Then, you cornered him into saying the actual words. Into actually saying, ' _I love you'_ , and I think that's what did it. I know you _heard_ him say it, Doctor Hooper. But you weren't _there_. You didn't _see_ the look on his face."

It was then, that Molly realized something she had never thought of before. _That phone call hurt him just as much as it hurt me._

"I held Sherlock as an _infant_. I was there for his first words, his first steps, his first and last days of school, and his first case as a detective. I kidnapped John the day he and Sherlock met just to make sure that he was trustworthy, just as I did with you." Mycroft chuckled, gesturing to the spot on his stomach where Molly had stabbed him with her car keys that night.

"I was there when he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, and it was I that rescued him from Russia when it was time for him to come home. Every single time Sherlock has needed me, I have been there. I was there before, and by God, I will be there, again. All the time I've known him, Molly. All the crises I have stood by him through… I had _never_ seen that look on Sherlock's face."

Mycroft shook his head at the memory. "And I don't ever want to see it, again."

Mycroft looked back into the cave, where Sherlock was lying peacefully next to the fire. "I don't deny that I am a heartless man, Doctor Hooper. But at that moment, a blind man could have seen that Sherlock was in love with you."

Silence. There was simply nothing more to say. The waves crashed against the shore, and the gulls cawed.

"Then why didn't he tell me?" Molly asked quietly.

"There's a plethora of reasons he may not have told you." Mycroft replied. "For one thing, Sherlock Holmes is a man with many enemies. How many times now has John's life been on the line from his friendship with him? Who were the snipers pointing their guns at during the Reichenbach incident? John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. People Moriarty thought Sherlock _cared_ about. Had he been under the impression at that time, I assure you, _you_ would have been a target that day, too. He was trying to prevent something like… _this_ from happening.

"Another possible explanation is that he simply didn't know _how_ to show you or tell you he loved you. Sentiment, emotions, feelings. They're not exactly his forte. You and I both know that."

"He either doesn't feel something that anyone else would, or he does feel it, and he reacts to it differently. Or, he does feel something, and absolutely no idea what to do about it." Molly said, quoting what Mycroft had said a few moments ago.

"Precisely."

Mycroft was quiet for another few moments before he chuckled and said, "The final reason I can think of is rather silly, honestly."

"And what's that?" Molly asked.

"Well, he may very well have just been scared."

"Why… why would he be nervous, though? He _knows_ I'm in love with him. I've been in love with him for _years_." Molly said.

"Even if he did know that, he may have just been scared that you'd be angry with him for waiting so long. Or that you would think that he was playing some sort of trick on you. Or that the wound from the Sherrinford incident was still too fresh. These are just guesses. When it comes to Sherlock Holmes, even _I_ have no way of knowing exactly what goes through his mind."

"I don't think anyone ever will." Molly giggled. "Thank you for talking to me, Mycroft. I think I feel a little… less confused, now."

" _Less_?" Mycroft questioned.

"Nothing will be completely clear until I have a much-needed talk with Sherlock… once he wakes up, that is."

"Yes, indeed. Erm… you should probably be headed inside, now."

"Oh. Um… alright, then." Molly stood up from where she'd been sitting down on one of the rocks outside of the cave. She started to turn in, but stopped.

"He loves you too, you know." Molly said.

Mycroft said nothing, but he glanced over his shoulder to look at her.

"In those terrifying few minutes that we thought you were dead… we didn't realize he was Sherlock at the time, so we didn't know why he was so upset. But he cried, Mycroft. I just thought you should know that. Just… I know he was a dragon. But he looked so… heartbroken when he thought you were gone. And at one point, a small group of Moriarty's men, some of the last men on the island, tried to attack us. He killed them, Mycroft. He killed them, and he killed all of the men who tried to drown you. So… he does love you. And I think you could plainly see by how happy he was when you finally started breathing that he loves you. I know how indifferent you two act around one another, so if there was any question in your mind… there it is."

Mycroft smiled. "There has never been a doubt in my mind, Miss Hooper. But… thank you."

The conversation over, Molly finally walked back inside. She had to pause a moment to collect herself when she saw Sherlock lying peacefully beside the fire.

Molly took a breath and walked over before sitting down next to him. They had him on his stomach. While checking him over for injuries earlier, they had been absolutely horrified. Sherlock was battered and bruised all over the place. And upon further inspection, there were injuries they had not noticed, before.

Sherlock was missing his entire fingernail on his right pinkie finger. John, being an army doctor, and Molly, being a mortician, knew that humans have more nerves in their fingers than in most other parts of their bodies because people of course use their hands and fingers for touching and feeling things. Molly knew this, too. But what she did not know was that a favorite method of torture, especially when it came to interrogation, was ripping out a person's fingernails. It was _incredibly_ painful. Particularly brutal people will rip out _all_ of a person's fingernails, whether they talk or not. The smart and not wasteful ones however, like Moriarty, know that people who refuse to talk after _one_ nail is removed, are not going to talk _at all_.

Sherlock also had cuts on his wrists and ankles consistent with handcuffs. Specifically, with being forced into stress positions.

What is a stress position?

A stress position places the human body in such a way that a great amount of weight is placed on only one or two muscles. Forcing prisoners to adopt such positions is an "enhanced interrogation technique", i.e: a torture technique, used for extracting information.

But the most horrifying _physical_ injuries were on Sherlock's back. The Lord only knew what awful device had made all the long, deep lashes and lacerations stretching across Sherlock's upper torso, but Molly hated every single one of them. For no reason other than that they were hurting Sherlock.

What else had been done to him, there was no way of knowing.

Molly didn't like thinking about what else could have been done to him. Moriarty was a professional criminal. Undoubtedly the closest thing to Satan living on Earth. God only _knew_ what he'd done to Sherlock before he'd finally realized that the only way to hurt Sherlock, _really_ hurt Sherlock, was to hurt the few people he truly loved.

And that had been a mistake. A _dragon-sized_ mistake.

Molly gently moved her fingers through his hair, brushing a few curly locks away from his face. He looked peaceful like this. As worried as Molly was about him, she couldn't help but be glad that he wasn't conscious. At least that meant he wasn't suffering.

"You get through this, Sherlock." Molly told him softly, though she didn't know whether or not he could hear. "Please come back to us. Come back to _me_ … I love you."

Molly laid down beside him and grabbed his wrist with one of her hands, feeling the pulse beating gently beneath her fingers. His breathing and heart rate had evened out and returned to normal long ago. Just a few minutes after John left.

 _I love the sound of your heartbeat._ Molly thought. _It lets me know you're still alive. It gives me hope that you're going to wake up. That everything is going to go back to the way it was. Or maybe, that things will be even better than they were._

Molly didn't know when she had dozed off, but she was awoken by the sound of helicopter blades just outside the cave.

* * *

John Watson made it to the nearby village with no difficulty. He was careful to stay on all the main roads before he finally made it to the local police station. They were skeptical about his story. In fact, they laughed at it. But regardless, he managed to get them to let him use the phone. He didn't have any phone numbers for Mycroft's people, so he called the second highest person on the totem pole he knew, which happened to be Lestrade.

There was quite a lot of apologizing from the coppers who had laughed at him when the fleet of government issue and Scotland Yard Helicopters showed up about a half hour later.

Which had immediately led John to where he was now. Sitting in a military medical chopper being fussed over by a nurse, who he was trying to ignore, as his eyes scoured the beach for the cave. John spotted the bare spot where Smaug had ripped those two trees out of the ground and immediately looked closer, identifying the figure standing on the rocks waving at them as Mycroft.

The helicopters landed immediately. Almost as soon as they hit the sand, a door of another helicopter was thrown open and Mycroft's PA, Anthea, ran out to throw her arms around Mycroft's neck. She was followed swiftly by about twelve government-issue bodyguards, a rather important looking man in a suit, and two doctors. The bodyguards immediately formed a protective circle around Mycroft, the government official stood there, waiting for Mycroft to acknowledge him, and the doctors immediately went to Mycroft, poking around and asking him if he was hurt. With a rather irritated look on his face, Mycroft said something harshly (John was too far away and couldn't hear exactly what he said) and pointed at the cave. He must have been talking about Sherlock.

Flanked by two more bodyguards, the doctors left the circle of people in a hurry in the direction of the cave. John tried to get out of the helicopter, but the nurses held him back and wouldn't let him. John was desperate to know of Sherlock's condition. Was he still breathing abnormally? Was he still alive? Had he woken up?

That was when Molly appeared out of the mouth of the cave. John could only guess that she'd dozed off or something, because she was rubbing her eyes and looked rather sleepy. She was holding the two sides of her shirt together, and John was rather glad when Lestrade walked up to her and gave her his jacket. John could tell that the fact that her clothes were indecent had been bothering Molly.

A few seconds later, John's stomach sank in his stomach. One of the doctors who had gone into the cave came running out looking rather distraught. They said something to the doctors in another one of the choppers and three doctors and two nurses jumped out of it and ran into the cave.

Sherlock's breathing had returned to normal. John, Molly, and Mycroft elected not to tell anyone about it _or_ the fact that Sherlock had been a _dragon_ about three hours ago… but saying that Sherlock was in 'rough' shape was an understatement.

John, Molly, and Mycroft, with Sherlock unconscious and on a stretcher, were flown by helicopter back to London. The three of them refused to be too far from Sherlock the entire time, but stayed just enough out of the way that the medical team could do their work. Patching up whatever injuries they could and checking along his body for more. Apparently, he also had internal bleeding that John nor Molly had noticed. Bloody brilliant. What good friends they were.

The original plan had been to take them to St. Barts hospital. But out of caution and just a hint of paranoia, Mycroft requested that they be taken to a top-secret, very high security, government-run hospital that treated members of parliament and other important persons in the case that an ordinary hospital would not be safe.

John and Molly were for the most part unharmed. John's worst injuries out of the entire ordeal were a black eye and a split lip, which were both easily treatable. Molly had actually come out worse than John.

From where those disgusting perverts had groped her all the way down the hallway and from places where she'd been grabbed too hard, Molly had dozens of hand and finger-shaped spots all over her body that would most likely be black and blue by tomorrow. John had been absolutely furious about what had _almost_ happened to Molly and what _had_ been done to her. He couldn't imagine how angry Sherlock must have been.

But Molly had also told them about what Sherlock had done to them for it.

And John didn't know whether to feel satisfied with it or horrified.

Aside from Sherlock, with five cracked ribs from when John had aggressively given him CPR as well as the standard bumps and bruises from where all three of them had been manhandled, Mycroft had come out the worst. That, and the Doctors were keeping him in the hospital for three days to watch for signs of hypoxemia, pneumonia, or ARDS (acute respiratory distress syndrome). Mycroft wasn't particularly happy about that, but all three were quite serious and they were all possible complications of near-drowning.

But none of them complained much about their injuries. None of them felt _entitled_ to complain about their injuries…

Not once Sherlock's entire diagnosis was complete.

Sherlock's black eye was a result of where someone had hit him in the face so hard, it actually cracked one of his cheekbones. He had nine broken and four cracked ribs. One missing fingernail. His muscles had been put under a serious level of strain that the doctors suspected that he'd been forced into stress positions, but John and Molly both suspected that may also have been a result of Sherlock transforming. He had six lacerations across his back. But each one must have been made by a cat o' nine tails or something similar, because each one was actually nine smaller lacerations _each_. For a grand total of fifty four. Then, there was the minor abdominal internal bleeding to consider.

Sure, it was _minor_ internal bleeding, but because of _where_ it was, Sherlock still had to have surgery for it. Plus the countless number of bruises and small cuts across the rest of Sherlock's body, this was the worst Sherlock had ever been hurt. He also needed stitches for most of the lacerations on his back. John didn't ask how many. He didn't want to know. Sherlock's chest was wrapped to protect his broken ribs and his entire back was bandaged. So were both of his arms and both of his legs, on account of the smaller injuries there. A patch on his cheekbone, a wrap around his forehead, and a band aid over his missing fingernail.

There were so many bandages that one could barely even see Sherlock, even though he was only wearing a hospital gown. When Sherlock and Mycroft's parents arrived at the hospital to see their sons, one could hardly blame Mrs. Holmes for her reaction. A scream, broken off by tears. Followed by a lot of fussing over Mycroft. Her youngest son was too fragile to coddle, so the woman double-coddled her eldest son. Mycroft pretended to be annoyed by it, but John could tell he was secretly enjoying it. The doctors weren't letting anyone other than the medical team within a few feet of Sherlock's bed. Even the slightest bump could reopen something.

The doctors estimated that Sherlock could be comatose for over a week. Months, even. The injuries could take months, even up to a year, to heal. Sherlock would need months, even years of psychiatric therapy to recover from the trauma of it all.

But the morning after Sherlock's diagnosis, it was made perfectly clear just how wrong their prognosis for his recovery was.

Because when Molly arrived in Sherlock's room to visit him, she was the first to notice that his missing fingernail was back.

When his bandages were changed about an hour later, the nurses were thrown into a complete loop as to how much the inflammation had gone down around his wounds, and the fact that his black eye was about a third the size it had been.

John, Molly, and Mycroft were the only people who could provide an explanation. And none of them said a word. A glance was all it took to communicate what they all thought. What they all _knew_.

The doctors had never treated a dragon before.

* * *

Smaug was born in Withered Heath sometime during the Third Age. His first memory was standing in the remnants of his eggshell, staring up wide-eyed at his mother. She was gentle, as far as dragon mothers went. He couldn't remember her name, but she was the color of deep red clay, and she had a scar across her face from a fight long ago with another dragon. He had two siblings. A brother and a sister. His brother was dark brown, and his sister was deep green. He couldn't recall either of their names, nor did he really care to. Familial bonds weren't very important to dragons.

His sister got very very sick when they were only a few days old. His mother separated the three of them in order to keep the rest of her nest healthy. Smaug was pretty sure that either she killed her dragonet to spare her the pain of a slow death, or his sibling succumbed to her illness. Because either way, he never saw her again.

Smaug never got the pleasure of meeting his father. Mated pairs usually stayed together until the young could fend for themselves. Smaug always wondered why the nests of dragonets around them each had a male and female dragon looking after them. It was only once they were old enough to understand such things, their mother told them that their father was killed by elves before their eggs were hatched, while stealing cattle from them to feed his brood.

The few memories Smaug had of the first year of his life were fond ones. He had all the food he could want, no one would ever attack Withered Heath simply because there were _so many_ dragons there, and he had plenty of dragonets his own age to play with.

That changed when they moved.

When the dragonets were a year old, the mothers left Withered Heath and returned to their own territories with their young in tow.

It was there that their mother taught them how to fight and where they went from simply learning how to glide to advanced flying lessons. His mother had been a strict teacher. Any messing around during a lesson would earn a dragonet a nip on the tail or wings for their insubordination.

Smaug was three when he and his brother left the nest. More like, _were banished from it_. But, that was the way it was done in dragon society. Smaug and his brother didn't go together. They exited their mother's territory, then parted ways without a word. They were a pair of males, which meant that they would be butting heads over females and territory, someday.

He never knew exactly what happened to his mother and brother. But based on the fact that after a few centuries the little people were calling him ' _the last dragon'_ , it was safe to assume that she and his brother were dead.

Smaug was never sure how he came to be the last dragon. He did nothing any differently than any other dragon did. He killed and ate whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Started some fights, avoided others. Whenever the humans, elves, dwarves, etc irked him, he burnt their villages to the ground. But looking back, the number of his own kind that he would bump into got smaller and smaller until one day, he realized just how long it had been since the last time he brushed scales with another wyvern.

Emotionally-wise, being the last of his kind only actually bothered Smaug in retrospect. _After_ he became Sherlock. _After_ he learned what love and compassion were. _After_ he had someone feel it for him and in turn felt it for someone else. The only time it ever bothered him as Smaug, in his previous life, was when mating season came around. Being the last dragon, when his body screeched at him to get hitched each year, there was no one else to help him… _deal with_ that itch.

Moooooving on from that topic, without any competition for food or territory, Smaug had plenty of food and space to _grow_. And grow, he did. Into one of the biggest if not _the_ biggest dragon the world had ever seen. And his pride, vanity, and pettiness only grew with his body.

To the point that when he decided to acquire a horde, as many old, large dragons did, the first thing his hellish orange eyes settled on was the assload of gold that the Dwarves had accumulated under their mountain.

Acquiring it cost the dwarves a few thousand lives and their homeland. It only cost Smaug a scale. Chipped from his armour when he was grazed by a black arrow. But it was that missing scale that got him killed years later.

Because the second black arrow to strike him didn't miss.

Smaug had no way of knowing how or why. But when the black arrow struck his heart, as soon as the world went black and he felt himself falling… he didn't die.

Not really.

When he'd opened his eyes, where was a gigantic human's face staring down at him saying, "Hello there, little brother. My name's Mycroft."

And the rest was history.

Back to the present, drifting in and out of deep unconsciousness, Sherlock's mind was mostly in a jumble. Mostly, he found himself drifting in and out of old memories, floating in a black mass, struggling to remember where he was or why he was there, or how to form a coherent thought at all. And sometimes he knew exactly what was going on. Sherlock wanted dearly to see his horde. _Are they alive? Are they safe? Are Mycroft's broken ribs being treated properly? Am I being experimented on, or did they keep my secret?_

But, each time he reached out for the light and started to pull himself out of the darkness, he would feel the pain his body was feeling and quickly let himself fall back into deep slumber again. It wasn't time to wake up, yet. Though in human form, the dragon's power was still at work. Healing his injuries faster and better than any human or doctor ever could. It was one aspect of the dragon's power that Sherlock couldn't quite control. Sometimes he could slow down his rate of healing to thwart suspicion that he was anything other than human. But now, his body was so badly damaged, that there was a chance he would be dead if he didn't let it do its' work.

And besides… Moriarty was still out there. Sherlock just knew it. And the Consulting Criminal would only see Smaug as a new challenge to overcome. A new reason to _stay alive_ , as he would put it. And now that he knew the right combination of buttons to push to get Smaug to come out, there was no telling what he'd decide to do.

Sherlock had to be ready to protect his horde again as soon as possible.

So, for a full week, that is how Sherlock stayed. Drifting in and out of deep unconsciousness, listening to the voices that would occasionally meet his ears from the outside world.

He didn't care to hear the voices of people he didn't know. The doctors, he could only assume, based on the wording they used.

It was _their_ voices he was listening for.

Mycroft. " _Are you going to sleep forever, Brother Mine? If memory serves me right, you would never let me sleep in as boys. We used to wake up bright and early to watch the sunrise. You used to call it 'the sky waking up'. Do you remember that, Brother mine?"_

 _Yes, Mycroft! Yes, I remember!_

John. " _You sure sleep in once you decide it's time to rest, don't you? Mrs. Hudson wants to visit you, but we can't seem to get her the clearance to. But she keeps baking fresh biscuits every day. Your favorite. Just in case it's the day you decide to come back. And Rosie misses you, too. She keeps asking for 'Lock'! I miss you too, you know. You git. Aren't you going to wake up, soon?"_

 _Just… a while longer. Then we'll all have biscuits, and I'm sure I'll be roped into another ridiculous game with Rosie… it'll be such fun. I look forward to it._

Molly. " _Had an interesting one at the morgue, today. I think you would love to look at it. And you still owe me a coffee. Remember? We were supposed to go out for coffee, Sherlock. It would have been great you know, to ease into things like normal people. We have so much to talk about. Please. Please come back to me, Sherlock. I love you."_

 _Molly… I… love you._

Then, just like that, the time to be asleep was over. Sherlock reached out of the darkness, and he could hear the quiet 'beep… beep… beep…' of the heart monitor. He could feel the warm blankets draped over his body. He could feel his hospital gown against his skin. He could feel the mattress pressing into his back.

But he felt no pain.

With a deep breath and a slight groan, at about 2:00 in the morning in a secret hospital about a kilometer underneath the heart of London, William Sherlock Scott Holmes awoke.


	8. VIII: Everything was going to be alright

**I know how long it's been, and for that I profusely apologize to everyone and thank all of you who haven't given up hope that this is dead for your patience. It's not. Now, I shall give my explanation for where the hekk I've been. My beloved computer busted many months ago and so I have only had access to my school chromebook for these many months, which only allows me to access my school accounts. So I haven't been able to access or work on ANY of my stories in MONTHS and it's been driving me INSANE. Then, a miracle! I got my very own chromebook for Christmas! And I've been diligently finishing and editing this chapter ever since (as well as working on other works that I have missed dearly) I knew I had to make it great to make it up to you all for the unannounced hiatus! I also made it nice and long. This is the longest chapter yet. At over 8,600 words, this chapter is over twice as long as chapter two! So I hope you all enjoy it! Happy reading!**

 **-aa14**

* * *

Everything fell into a state of somewhat normalcy during the week after the incident. At least, as normal as it could get. For Molly, John, and Mycroft, _normal_ had Sherlock in it. So nothing could possibly be normal with Sherlock in a coma.

But, things did fall into a routine. John and Molly were released from the hospital after only a single day of observation and Mycroft was released after three. Molly wasn't exactly sure what John and Mycroft's routine were, but she knew that John's revolved around taking care of Rosie, his job as a doctor (he told Molly he returned to work after only four days just to get his mind off everything), and visiting Sherlock in the hospital. Molly and John had no way of knowing what Mycroft was up to, but it was most likely classified. And it most likely had to do with tying up loose ends and silencing loose lips about what had transpired off the coast of England. The only time Molly ever saw Mycroft throughout that week was whenever she came to the hospital to see Sherlock. Their schedules lined up perfectly apparently, because he was always leaving at the time that Molly arrived. Their conversations were short, though. They each had places to be.

As for Molly, her schedule was simple enough. Get up, get dressed, apply Aloe Vera to her fading bruises, apply makeup to bruises that were visible, feed Toby, eat breakfast, and maybe watch the telly. That was her morning.

The news was all abuzz about Sherlock. The official story that had been released on the matter twisted the truth until it was barely recognizable, but it did tell the public the basic truth. Sherlock had been abducted for information about a case, John Watson and two unnamed others had also been abducted a few days later (the public already knew what good friends John and Sherlock were, so it would come as no surprise to them, there was simply no need to bring Molly or Mycroft into the spotlight) in an attempt to get said information out of Sherlock. And in response to that, Sherlock had killed a few dozen people and saved all three of their lives but had been badly injured in the process and was in a coma at an undisclosed hospital. The courts had already thrown out any possible convictions against Sherlock for murder or anything else relating to what had transpired because the testimonies of the three lives he'd saved and the injuries he'd sustained were proof enough that it was self defense. And in addition to that (mostly for saving an important official like Mycroft), the Queen herself had granted Sherlock a pardon, despite him being in a coma. The story the public had been told was a fairy tale compared to the truth.

One thousand seven hundred eighty four. That was the latest number Mycroft had given John and Molly. That was the number of corpses found on the two islands. And there was only one thing that could have killed them. Whether or not there were more was unclear. There were spots that were nothing more than shadows of people against stone where Smaug's fire had incinerated them. There were things that may or may not have been people but were too unidentifiable to be sure. And then there was the fact that the people on the islands weren't even done looking.

And that was two days ago. Had that number gone up since then?

Molly felt a _little_ guilty knowing she was among the reasons for their deaths, but she found that she didn't actually care. Anyone stupid or evil enough to willingly work for Moriarty deserved to die, didn't they?

To Molly's knowledge, the body of the Consulting Criminal, if there was one, had not yet been found. That fact alone was enough to keep her up at night.

Molly left her flat at exactly nine every morning. She never saw them, but Mycroft was quick to inform both her and John that he would be having some of his people tailing anyone with a close connection to Sherlock at all times for the next few months. Just until everything quieted down a bit. Molly often had the feeling of being followed. She was pretty certain that there were at least two. But knowing that they were Mycroft's people and that they were there to protect her was comforting.

She didn't take cabs anymore. She was pretty sure it would be awhile before she got into a taxi by herself again. That was how Moriarty had kidnapped her. She'd gotten in a cab after work and asked to be taken home, only to have the driver drive in the opposite direction. When she'd opened her mouth to complain, he'd locked all the doors and pointed a gun at her face. She wasn't going to make the same mistake again. And though it took longer, Molly found that she rather enjoyed walking to work. The distance between St. Barts and her flat wasn't too far, she saved a few pounds for each time she didn't take a cab, and she liked seeing the people, the birds, the trees, everything she'd taken for granted before was suddenly much more beautiful.

She supposed a near death experience would do that to a person.

Once she arrived at work, she usually had to take shortcuts to avoid her coworkers. It was nice that they cared, but still. The story that had been released about Molly's disappearance was that she'd been attacked in an alley on her way home from work, but a passerby had saved her before the attacker could do anything more than leave a bunch of bruises all over her. So, she'd been in another hospital for a few days for shock.

No one said it, but Molly knew that they all suspected she was one of the two other people Sherlock Holmes had saved. The timing was too perfect and they all knew that she was not only Sherlock's favorite mortician to work with, but also a good friend of his.

She usually had lunch with John around one or two, then worked a few hours longer before calling it a day.

After work, there was always a black limousine waiting for her outside. She'd get in and a rather intimidating, official looking man would always silently drive her to a certain undisclosed location to visit Sherlock. Molly had absolutely no idea where it was. The windows on the inside of the limo were so black that she couldn't see outside.

Upon arriving, security was tight. She'd be taken into a building that looked like someone's private mansion and searched head to toe for sharp objects or anything that could possibly be used as a weapon before being escorted to the person's room whom she'd come to visit.

It always upset her to see Sherlock still asleep, but she knew that she was never going to stop visiting him until he woke up.

Sherlock's condition was… strange. The doctors knew he was still in there and therefore likely to wake up because their monitors were detecting slow, leisurely brain activity as if he was dreaming. She'd also been told that a few times, that activity had spiked to the point that he was almost conscious, then quickly gone back down again. The doctors had never seen anything like it. It was as if Sherlock kept checking to see whether or not he was all better yet, but kept going back to sleep when he found that he was still injured.

And as unusual as that was, Sherlock's body was even stranger.

Sherlock's missing fingernail inexplicably grew back overnight. Under normal circumstances, should a person lose an entire fingernail, it _should_ take roughly six months for it to grow back, entirely.

By nightfall of that day, most of the smaller scratches across his body were gone and the lacerations on his back were so far healed that any doctor would have assumed that it had a week or more to heal, not two days. The swelling around his lacerations had gone all the way down and the stage of tissue regrowth had already begun. It was nothing short of incredible.

By the night of day three, Sherlock's broken cheekbone and ribs had mysteriously gone perfectly back into place and were healing nicely and his lacerations were about halfway healed over.

The lacerations and his cracked bones were completely healed and being replaced by scar tissue by day five. That was when Sherlock's stitches were removed, too.

On day six, the scars on Sherlock's back were so faded that they looked as though they had been there for years, not just a week. Looking at his back, you wouldn't notice them unless you already knew they were there. It was as if time was moving faster for Sherlock and yet, his hair wasn't getting any longer and he wasn't aging.

Today was day seven. When Molly finally arrived at Sherlock's room and received an overview of his condition from a nurse, she learned that there hadn't been much change in Sherlock's condition other than that his scars were much more faded than they were the previous day. If there was anything else going on, it was nothing the doctors could easily see or detect.

Still, it made Molly worry. If Sherlock's body was back to its former glory, why wasn't he awake yet?

"We all know you're still in there." Molly said quietly, reaching over to brush his black curls out of his handsome face. "I wonder, when you wake up, will you tell me what you've been doing in there all this time?" Molly asked. "I suppose you won't have a reason not to. You can't possibly have any more secrets that are more surprising than… _you know_."

She pulled her hand back and took another moment to think about what had happened. Most girls expected a knight in shining armour to save them from scoundrels and evil men (IF they couldn't save themselves first, that is), but a _dragon_ had come for her. And Molly found that she didn't mind. Not one bit. In fact, looking back, Molly had no idea why it had taken them so long to realize exactly who was residing in the body of the beast. All the signs had been there. He'd acted like Sherlock and even looking at his face, there was no mistaking it that despite being a _very_ different species, one that should not even exist, Smaug _definitely_ looked like Sherlock.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember. Every little detail of Smaug she could. _Flaming amber eyes. Deep red scales. A neck so long it could turn around to look in almost any direction, a long stripe of black running down his spine. A crown of horns atop his head. Like a king. Sharp white teeth. Like swords. Long, black claws. As long as spears and twice as deadly. Those huge, magnificent wings. Creating wind like a hurricane with each stroke._

Molly opened her eyes and looked down at the man who was lying almost dead to the world in the hospital bed beside her. It shouldn't be a surprise to Molly that Sherlock Holmes made such a magnificent dragon. He was, after all, a rather magnificent looking man. Even if you didn't know him, Sherlock drew attention everywhere he went. The most obvious reason being that he was _incredibly_ handsome, with cheekbones you could cut yourself on, intense blue-grey eyes constantly shining with intlligence, thick dark curls, and a voice that could make any woman swoon. But it was more than that. There was much more to it than that. Not only was he beautiful, but the way he held himself, the way he walked, the way he moved. Every little motion and gesture was graceful and powerful in its own way. His very presence filled any room he was in. And now, it was easier to understand why. He was a dragon. A monster who fought on the side of the angels. He fought for them, and yet he was not one of them. He never had been. And anyone who thought otherwise was blind.

Molly laid her head on her arms and made herself comfortable, sitting in a recliner, her head and arms resting on the arm near Sherlock's head.

"We have a few things to talk about once you wake up, you know." Molly muttered. "And not all of them have to do with dragons or islands or even Moriarty. You said a lot of things back there." She chuckled to herself. "' _I love you.'_ You don't just say that to someone, then decide to go into a coma. Especially when you know how long she's loved you back."

The fear in his eyes flashed into her mind. Just before he'd changed back, before John had figured it out, he had looked so scared. "Were you really afraid of showing us that other side of you? Come on, now. You should know us better. No matter where you go, or what you're accused of, or what stands against you, you have friends, family, and friends who have _become_ family. And I can tell you for sure that quite a few of them, John, Mycroft, and myself included, will always be on your side. No matter what form you take, or what name you go by. You'll always be our Sherlock."

Molly yawned. It had been a long day, and her nights had not been the most restful. She had found, since beginning these visits, that the only time she was ever truly at ease was when she was in Sherlock's presence, even if he was still asleep.

"I think I'll stay just a while longer." Molly said. "The doctors think you'll be awake soon, and I want to be here to see it. But I'm tired. Just... tired. Sleep hasn't come easy to me since, well,

you know. _That_. So I'll have to go home soon to get some rest. You understand, right? After all, you've been asleep for quite a long while now, haven't you? But everyone's worried about you. Come on Sherlock, it's time to wake up."

* * *

 _Beep... Beep... Beep..._ That was the first noise to reach his ears. A soft beeping, playing along to the tune of his heart beat. The warmth of a blanket wrapped around his body. The pressure of a mattress pressing onto his back, and of a pillow under his head. The stiffness of muscles that hadn't been used in over a week. With a slight groan, the cool blue-grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes opened sleepily, staring right up at an unfamiliar ceiling. _Based on the smell of disinfectant, the monitors, and the hospital gown, I must be in a hospital. Not Barts, but a hospital._ He deduced.

Memories hazily drifted back into his mind. Things he'd heard while drifting in and out of unconsciousness and everything that had happened before.

 _They don't hate me for being a dragon_. The thought made Sherlock's lips twitch upwards in a smile. _But where are they?_

In an attempt to relieve the soreness in every muscle in his body, Sherlock clenched and stretched as much as he could without moving too much. But the feeling of someone's fingers wrapped around his hand and the sound of a small, sleepy groan beside him made him turn. And immediately, he smiled.

Molly. Of course, Molly would be here. She was sitting in a recliner, but she wasn't completely in it. Her head was resting on her crossed arms, which were on his bed right next to him, and one of her hands was holding one of his. Her touch was warm and her presence was a comfort and a relief. He tightened his fingers around hers and rubbed his thumb in gentle circles over the top of her hand.

She groaned sleepily and turned her head, her pretty brown eyes flickering open. She sat bolt upright when she saw him, awake, smiling at her.

"Hello, Molly." He sighed happily.

Tears welled up in her eyes and without a word, she threw her arms around his neck. Sherlock returned the embrace with a passion. One arm behind her back, one around her hips, pulling her into his lap, close to him as tightly as he could without hurting her. He buried his face in her shoulder and relished the smell of lemon scented body products, cats, and St. Barts intermingled with the scent that was unmistakably Molly.

Because, one has to keep in mind, it may have been a week since the incident off the coast of Britain, but for Sherlock, who had been in and out of an albeit short coma, it hadn't been that long at all.

"Idiot... you bloody idiot." She was cursing softly, sounding to be on the verge of tears. "Do you have any bloody idea how worried about you I was? How worried we _all_ were? For a few moments we thought you were dead, you bastard!"

"If I'd died, it would have been worth it."

"What the bloody hell were you thinking, fighting in your condition? You looked like you could barely stand. Much less- Oh Sherlock, what were you thinking?"

"The pain just disappeared when he turned the telly on." Sherlock said, remembering the feeling of his stomach wrenching in terror, his heart clenching in fear and worry. "When I saw you... he said- he said he was going to kill you all. He said he was going to _rape you_. I- I was so scared. I just- I couldn't live without you."

"It was so bad, Sherlock. There was so much blood. You could barely see any of your skin, there were so many bruises and cuts." She sniffed. "What did he do to you?"

"No idea." He admitted.

"Sherlock, I'm being serious-"

"So am I. One of the benefits of being able to delete certain memories at will is that it's rather easy to erase psychological trauma. I'd probably be a howling madman by now if I hadn't been deleting things as he did them to me. I remembered I had each injury, I knew I was being tortured, but I don't remember the _experience_ of attaining the injuries. Hence, I'm not traumatized by it. Do you understand?"

She pulled back to look at him and nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Yes, I understand. I mean, I don't know _how_ the bloody hell you... _delete things_ like that, but I understand." She said, but she still looked worried.

Sherlock cupped her face with his hands and pulled her face to him so that their foreheads were touching. "Really Molly, I really am fine. I promise."

"Okay." She sighed. "I believe you. But if- if a time ever comes when you're not fine, if... certain memories decide to come back somehow- if that's possible once you've gone and deleted them, you'll tell me, right?"

"Of course I will."

They didn't say anything for a while. Then, Molly asked, "Erm, you- you said something... just before you passed out. Did you- I mean, what I'm trying to ask is-"

And without bothering to let her finish, he moved one hand to the back of her head, tangled his fingers in her hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her.

For a second or two, she stiffened. Then, she was melting in his embrace and she was kissing him back. Her hands found his hair, her fingers caressing his scalp. He couldn't taste anything in her mouth, it was just her, and she tasted so sweet. Sherlock dragged the rest of her into his lap, she let out a small squeak of surprise at that, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around her. She was so much smaller than him, and yet she fit so perfectly against him. What the hell had he been _doing_ all these years? How hadn't he seen that they were made to be together?

In fact, if he thought about it, he realized that it was as if he had been made to fit into this world. He couldn't imagine his life without a single piece of his horde. He didn't know how he'd gotten by before he'd met them, either. As Smaug, in the back of his mind, he'd always felt that he just didn't belong in that world. Like he was a puzzle piece that had been tossed into the wrong box. He was big, he disrupted the lives of every other living thing around him, and for the vast majority of his long life, he was alone. But once his life as Smaug had come to an end, Sherlock had finally been put in the right box.

His life as Sherlock hadn't been very long. And yet, right from the start, he'd landed in a strong, loyal family (aside from Euros) and once he'd gotten older, he'd come to realize that there were some things in life that were far, far more precious than gold. The kind, intelligent, beautiful human being in his arms right now was one of them.

"Molly-" He panted as they broke apart, foreheads just touching. "Beautiful. I love you. I love you so much, my _precious…_ So much more precious than gold."

* * *

The dawn painted the sky tangerine, coral, and rose. The sun's light blocking out the stars one by one until not a single one remained to be seen. Mycroft Holmes tapped his foot anxiously on the floor, staring out the window of his limousine, wanting to be at his destination faster.

Mycroft had awoken very early that morning from a nightmare about drowning, glanced at his phone, and seen two texts. One from Molly, one from the hospital. And both of them said the same thing. Sherlock was awake. The doctors prognosis for his recovery had been months or years long. And yet, just a week after the incident off the coast of Britain, he was awake, up, about, and of perfectly sound mind.

It was a miracle.

Mycroft hadn't believed in miracles not too long ago. But that's exactly what it was. A miracle.

Sensing his anxiety, Anthea reached over and interlocked her fingers with his beside him. Mycroft had never been one for shows or gestures of physical affection, but it seemed that the longer he was with Anthea, the longer he enjoyed giving and receiving them from her. And admittedly, he did relax a little more. Just a little.

"He's alright, Mycroft." She said softly. He didn't have to say anything for Anthea to understand. She didn't know _everything_ that had happened on the islands, but she did know about Smaug. She was the only person Mycroft told, which was a testament in itself to how much he trusted her. Not even his parents knew about Sherlock's other side, not that he hadn't considered telling them. But, there were some things that may be best kept from one's parents. And not only that, but creating a cover up for something that big was something even Mycroft couldn't do completely alone. Anthea had proven herself a trustworthy and useful ally.

"I know he is." Mycroft said with a forced smile; he was too anxious for it to be real. "But I don't think I can relax until I see for myself."

"We're pulling up to the hospital, now. It won't be too long."

And indeed, they were. When Mycroft's car pulled up to security, it took all of Mycroft's patience to sit still and wait for them to look over the car. Then, when the car actually pulled up to the front doors of the hospital, Mycroft all but jumped out. The hospital had the appearance of being a private mansion on the outside. Tight security, high walls, and all the luxury of British nobility. Luscious gardens, beautiful architecture, and the like. The inside was also luxurious, which was obvious considering that only people of great importance were treated there. But the top floors of the hospital didn't house many patients. Most of them were up to a kilometer underground, even more secure. That was where Sherlock's room was. Security guards started to approach him, but they backed off as soon as they realized who he was. There wasn't even a point in checking him.

He didn't even bother waiting for Anthea. She was used to his seeming coldness and understood his urgency. Not a single guard stopped him as Mycroft made his way to the elevator and down to his brother's room. The elevator music just made his foot tap harder in urgency as he waited and he sped down the hall once the doors finally opened on the appropriate floor. Were it not for his still-cracked ribs, he would have undoubtedly been running. Mycroft slowed to a stop in front of Sherlock's door and after a moment's hesitation, stepped inside.

Sherlock wasn't there. But a very startled nurse was, changing the sheets on the hospital bed.

"Mr. Holmes, I-"

"Where is he?"

"He went up to the upper floors maybe an hour ago. I thought he said that he was going for a stroll in the gardens. I think some fresh air will do him some good, don't you? Truly remarkable recovery-"

But, Mycroft was already speeding back to the elevator.

Mycroft first saw Sherlock out a window on his way to the gardens. Sherlock's back was to Mycroft and he was a little ways from the building; but despite this and while not dressed in his usual suit, there was no mistaking Sherlock's structure and that mess of black curls. Mycroft would know it anywhere.

Mycroft nearly collided with Molly on his way out the door into the gardens. She was headed in at the same time he was headed out.

"Hullo, Mycroft."

"Good morning, Dr. Hooper."

"How are you?"

"How is he?" He asked, completely ignoring her question.

"Sherlock is- he's Sherlock. He said he's a little sore, but that's to be expected. And that seems to mostly be from lying still for so long, not from being hurt. He seems happy, though he really wants to go back to Baker Street, and he doesn't remember anything they did to him. Said he was ' _deleting'_ as he was being tortured, so he's not traumatized by that at all. He just seems a little clingy, is all. I think that what happened to us- or, what _almost_ happened to us scared him a lot more than what happened to him. He's also been asking for you and John. A lot. It hasn't been as long for him as it has for us. He was in a coma for the last week, so it's all still fresh on his mind."

Mycroft caught his breath and he couldn't help but smile. "Good. That's good. That's very good." Then he noticed the slight swell in her lips and the glisten in her eyes and he couldn't help but smile a little wider. "And by the way, our parents are going to _love_ you." He added, leaning forward on his umbrella.

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock's and mine. Or parents are going to love you, and you have my approval as a sister-in-law."

"It's not what you think." She said, getting redder by the second.

"How long had he been awake before he kissed you?" Mycroft smirked.

Molly's whole face was now beet red and she looked away in embarrassment.

"Not very long at all, then."

"He didn't ask me to marry him or anything like that." She mumbled, blatantly refusing to look Mycroft in the eye.

"Oh, I didn't think so. But if I were to make a deduction, I'd say it's only a matter of time. But even if you aren't engaged just yet, you are in fact together, yes?"

Molly hesitated, then nodded. "He also asked me to move in with him." She mumbled. "Said John's been considering moving out of 221B and into 221C, anyway. Just too many sharp objects, body parts, and overall dangerous things in 221B for a toddler."

"My God, then he's even deeper in love than I thought. And what did you reply?"

"That I wanted to make absolutely sure he was better first, and I'd like to go on a date or two with him before anything like that."

"So in other words, you'll be living at 221B Baker Street by the end of the month."

"Probably." She muttered, fidgeting slightly.

There was a slight lull in the conversation so Mycroft asked, "Should I be expecting nieces or nephews-?"

"How do you like your coffee? Because I was just on my way to get some!" Molly said quickly.

Mycroft chuckled. "I am only joking, Ms. Hooper. And if you are in fact on your way to get coffee I like mine black with two sugars, please."

"Okay. Sherlock likes his the same way." She said, before moving past him and walking in the direction of the hospital's food court.

Mycroft watched her go, then turned to the open doorway. He collected himself, gathered his courage, and stepped out into the morning sun.

Mycroft couldn't help but think that Sherlock looked almost angelic. Perhaps it was his own happiness and relief at seeing him alive and well, but it was the truth. Sherlock was dressed simply in a set of clean, pure white hospital scrubs that reflected the morning light and contrasted his messy dark curls perfectly. He was standing barefooted in the middle of a cobblestone section of the path in front of a big, blooming bush of blue lilacs beside a decorative white table. He was swaying gently on his feet, playing a serene yet content sounding song on his violin. Mycroft had brought it by yesterday knowing that Sherlock would probably want it not too long after waking up, even if Mycroft hadn't known at the time how long that would be. It wasn't a song Mycroft recognized, so he figured that it was probably one of Sherlock's own compositions.

Mycroft walked up to the path until he wasn't too far away from Sherlock and just watched him and listened to him play, waiting for an opening to say hello. He hadn't been standing there for more than a moment though when Sherlock paused, set his violin down on the table, and slowly turned around.

Their eyes met. And for a moment or two, they just stared at each other.

Compared to how deathly pale Sherlock had been days ago, Mycroft thought that Sherlock looked absolutely vibrant. The color on his face had returned and those familiar blue eyes looked more alive than Mycroft thought he had ever seen them. Sherlock looked Mycroft over from head to toe, then smiled.

"Hello Mycroft," he said.

"Brother mine," and even the iceman couldn't contain the relief in his voice when he spoke.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. How dare he? How dare the man who had nearly died to save him, who had been in a trauma-induced coma for the past week, ask if _he_ was alright? But Mycroft answered him, anyway.

"Erm, yes. I'm fine. A few broken ribs that will take a little time and patience to heal, but aside from that yes, I am fine." Mycroft said, gesturing to which ones Dr. Watson had cracked while performing the CPR that had saved his life.

Sherlock gulped. "Are you in any pain?" He asked. Mycroft remembered the last time Sherlock had asked him that like it was yesterday. But back then, _Mycroft_ had been the one in the hospital.

"Hardly. The drug they have me on is doing wonders, though it hurts a little if I exert myself too much."

"Good."

"Are _you_ alright?" Mycroft asked.

"I'm fine, Mycroft. I'm sure Molly told you. Just a little sore in a few places, and a little lethargic, perhaps."

"That's good. That's very good."

There were a few moments of silence. Mycroft wet his lips with his tongue and nervously continued. "I'm not going to press, Sherlock. But- I-" For once, it was a question Mycroft didn't know how to ask. "I know what I saw was real. John and Molly saw it too. How is it possible? And how long have you- how long? What I mean to say is-"

"My whole life." Sherlock replied. "I was five the first time I changed. That day I got lost playing hide and seek with you and Victor. That's what happened to my clothes that day, too."

Mycroft laughed. "I had nearly forgotten about that, it was so long ago. It's been a family mystery for years. You never would tell us what really happened to your clothes or where you'd been. Mummy and Daddy were terrified that you had possibly been sexually assaulted."

That made Sherlock laugh, too.

"Ah, that shouldn't be making me laugh but it is. And that is most certainly _not_ what happened. But let's face it. Even if I'd been honest with you that day, there is no way in hell anyone would have believed me."

"Absolutely not. But, that doesn't answer the second part of my question. _How_?"

"I couldn't give you any science behind it if I tried. All I can give you is the story as to _why_ I can turn into a dragon."

"I'm desperate for any sort of explanation."

"I was reincarnated."

"And just like that, you have lost me."

"It's the truth, as mad as it sounds. I was a dragon in my previous life, Mycroft. The very same one that I turned into to save you. I was the last of my kind and my name was Smaug. And I lived in a world similar to this one in some ways, and very different from this world in other ways."

"How was it different?"

"The people who called it home called it Middle Earth. The technology was in the dark ages. But where it lacked in technology, it made up for in magic."

"Magic?"

"I turned into a giant fire-breathing wyvern and back. Are you really that surprised?"

"Forgive me, but it is a lot to take in."

"I can understand that."

"Don't stop. Please do continue."

"Middle Earth was home to many magical creatures and peoples." Sherlock continued. "Elves, Dwarves, Men, Spirits, Wizards, Hobbits, Orcs, Trolls, Ogres, Giants. Eagles the size of elephants, spiders and wolves the size of horses, and men who could turn into other things."

"Men like you?"

Sherlock laughed. "Hevans, no. I was a dragon, through and through. And people, well- I'm not going to lie to you, Mycroft. I wasn't a very good dragon. I mean, I was an _excellent_ dragon. I outlived the rest of my kind, I lived in a castle under a mountain, and I had a horde of treasure that I don't think even you could imagine. But I did very bad things, Mycroft. Things I only feel guilty about in retrospect. After I was reborn into this life. After the people I've met throughout my life taught me things that you and I scoff at sometimes, but that we feel all the same. Love, compassion, _sentiment_ , the company of friends and family. _True_ joy. All those things were denied to me, Mycroft. And I didn't learn until I became Sherlock, until _you made me Sherlock_ , that a life without love isn't one worth living."

"Love?" Mycroft cocked his head.

Sherlock looked a little bit like a deer in the headlights, but he recovered pretty quickly. "Yes, Mycroft. Love." He said nervously. And then he paused, as though composing what he was going to say, next.

"Mycroft," He said at last, "You know the way we are. This- this isn't easy for me to say. But I need to say it. When they turned that telly on, and I saw you, John, and Molly- I don't think I really knew what fear was until that moment, Mycroft. And I wasn't just looking at John and Molly. I was looking at you, too."

"I know you were." Mycroft said. "I saw you."

"That was what made me change, you know. I'd held it back no matter how much they hurt me for the sake of my secret. Because I thought that if anyone knew what I was, they'd hate me. They'd fear me. They wouldn't want anything to do with me. That's what men thought of dragons in my previous life, so why would it be any different, here? And I didn't want to lose you. _Any_ of you. But then, they turned the telly on and I saw that they had you. And Moriarty said all those horrible things. He was going to make _you_ suffer to make _me_ suffer, and then he was going to kill you all if I didn't give him information I didn't have. And I knew that if I told him that, he'd kill you all anyway. And I'd lose you. There was only one alternative left. I only had one move left that could possibly save your lives and I didn't care how badly hurt I was. I'd lose you either way but at least if I changed and you saw what I was, even if you called me a monster and locked me away or worse, you'd all be alive. You'd be safe. And that was all that mattered. I didn't even kill Moriarty. He's still out there, as far as I know. I haven't told Molly that yet because I didn't want to scare her. I just slaughtered whoever I had to to get them the hell out of my way. I panicked, and I flew. Straight to you."

Sherlock's eyes were wet, and his voice was strained, but Mycroft hung on to every word.

"And as I flew, I remember thinking of all the things I regretted not saying. Not doing. And if I was too late, I'd never have the chance to. I found Molly and John so easily. But then, I couldn't find you no matter how hard I looked. And when I finally did-"

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and Mycroft could see it on his face that Sherlock's mind was suddenly many kilometers away on an island on fire, last week, looking down at Mycroft's unmoving, soaked body. Tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes and that was when he did the most unexpected thing. He closed the distance between them and threw his arms around Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft was so surprised that he froze. Sherlock was hugging him. Never, in all their years as brothers, had Sherlock _ever_ initiated a hug.

"Mycroft, I am so sorry." He said quietly. "I love you so much. I'm sorry. You were dead. You were _dead_ , Mycroft. And it was all my fault. I'm _so sorry_."

Mycroft dropped his umbrella and hugged his little brother back. "It's quite alright, Sherlock. I couldn't die, now could I? I couldn't go and leave you to your own devices."

"Just don't ever do that again, you _ass_."

"Well for a good two minutes, I thought _you_ were dead too. So let's call it even, shall we?"

Sherlock laughed and pulled away, blinking tears out of his eyes. "I suppose that's only fair."

Sherlock's smile broadened, his pupils dilated, and he looked past Mycroft. Mycroft turned around to see Molly coming down the path struggling to hold three steaming cups of coffee.

"I'm happy for you." Mycroft said. "And I approve. She's a good one."

"Oh, yes. Molly. Yes, I'm very happy. Thank you." He said, unable to wipe the ear-to-ear grin off his face. "She's- she's great. She's fantastic. Erm, speaking of, I know social gatherings of any sort aren't your cup of tea Mycroft, but we- Molly and I that is, were going to have a little get together at Baker Street with our friends. Not quite sure when. But if and when we decide on the date, I would like you to come. Even if you just pop by for a minute, I would _really_ like you to be there."

Mycroft nodded. "I think I'd like that."

"Good. That's good. We should probably help her with those."

For the better, things were different between them from that day on.

* * *

It was good to be back in London. And it was _very_ good to be back at Baker Street.

There was a thin layer of dust covering the flat because of its occupant's nearly two week absence, and Sherlock had to dispose of two garbage bags worth of human body parts and experiments that had been unattended to in two weeks, which was a massive disappointment.

But in complete honesty, the thing he was the most peeved about, which he blamed the territorial dragon side of him for, was how stale his scent in the flat had become. Dragons were homebodies at heart, after all. They much preferred the security of their own territory.

Needless to say, the dragon was glad to be back in the den, and the consulting detective was happy to be back in the flat.

It was just a few hours after his conversation with Mycroft in the garden of the hospital. He hadn't exactly been cleared to leave the hospital per say, but he had been so sick of being away from his beloved flat and that he had let the doctors give him one last checkup before threatening Mycroft that he would _fly home_ if he wasn't released that very day.

And rather wisely, Mycroft had taken him completely seriously.

The very moment Sherlock had stepped out of Mycroft's limo, Mrs. Hudson had come rushing out of the building, promptly burst into tears at the sight of him, and then made a huge and unnecessary fuss over him that he had been mildly annoyed by and yet still found endearing. She'd ushered him and Molly inside and even dragged Mycroft and Anthea out of the limo and into the flat for tea and freshly baked biscuits before they could escape.

He'd been so worried about John, Mycroft, and Molly that he hadn't realized just how much he had missed his landlady-not-housekeeper.

Sherlock felt a little bad for Mycroft. No sooner than had Mrs. Hudson finally let him leave… Mummy and Daddy arrived. And poor Mycroft and Anthea were dragged into yet another two hours of social interaction. With Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, no less.

Sherlock's mother cried _hard_ when she saw Sherlock, awake and alive and back to his usual self. And the coddling that followed was easily twice as bad as Mrs. Hudson's. Unlike Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Holmes had the misfortune of seeing him when he had first arrived at the hospital; so badly hurt he probably shouldn't have been alive and so covered in bandages that you could barely see him under them all.

" _M-my poor baby boy! There was so much blood!"_ It took easily ten minutes to calm the poor woman down. She didn't question exactly _how_ he had healed so quickly, and neither did his father. They were just happy that their son was alright, again. _Both_ of their sons. Mycroft suffered his fair share of coddling, too. Unlike Sherlock, his ribs were still healing.

In an attempt to shift his parents' attention, Mycroft had abruptly announced that Sherlock and Molly were together.

There was silence.

And then there wasn't.

Had they really given up _that_ much hope that any of their children would ever find someone? You would have thought that Molly had turned water into wine, they made such a fuss! Sherlock would get Mycroft back for that soon enough. It was only a matter of time until their parents found out that Mycroft and Anthea had been together for months and hadn't bothered to tell them. And Sherlock could pull that card on Mycroft at any time.

Mrs. Hudson was genuinely shocked that Sherlock was in a relationship that wasn't with John, but Sherlock didn't feel a twinge of remorse at ' _sinking her ship'_. He wasn't gay, and neither was John.

 _John_.

Before his parents left, the family set a date to go visit Euros in the near future. His sister had of course not been told what had happened to her brothers or even that Moriarty was back. But her genius was so ludicrous that he was sure that if she hadn't already somehow figured out _everything_ that was going on, she at least knew that _something_ big had happened to her brothers. They had scheduled a visit that should have taken place over a week ago. But shit had happened. So undoubtedly, she was probably feeling abandoned that no one had shown up when she had thought they would. He'd have to apologize to her when he saw her. And maybe explain things the best he could. Even if she wouldn't say anything back, she at least deserved that.

Mycroft and Anthea gave Molly a lift back to her flat (and Sherlock got yet another kiss before she left). And after Lestrade came by not too long after, that left only two more pieces of his horde. Among the most precious pieces. Little Rosie… and John.

Sherlock had lost his phone when he'd been abducted, so he had asked Molly to send John a text letting him know that Sherlock was going back to 221B and wouldn't be at the hospital. To Sherlock's knowledge, said text had gotten no reply.

John had a daughter to take care of. And facing Sherlock after all that had happened probably wouldn't be easy for him. Sherlock didn't blame him at all for being the last to come see Sherlock. But he wasn't the last one by much. Not three minutes after Lestrade had taken his leave, it was just before noon and Sherlock was sitting in his chair in his favorite thinking position contemplating what exactly he was going to say to his best friend when he heard the distinct sound of John's footsteps skipping stairs up to 221B.

 _To battle._

Out of breath, John Watson opened the door to the flat and paused when he saw Sherlock, sitting in his chair just like any other day. John blinked rapidly as though making absolutely certain that he was real. Slowly, Sherlock stood up and clasped his hands behind his back to hide how much he was fidgeting his fingers. Sherlock had two primary reasons to be nervous. The last time Sherlock had come back from the dead, John had punched him in the face at least three times in a single night. Sherlock was pretty sure that this wasn't going to end the same way that had, but it still proved beneficial to be cautious.

The other reason he had to be nervous was that he had been thinking about this moment all day.

And yet he still had absolutely no idea what to say to John.

 _As you can see, I'm alright._

 _I'm sorry I put you in harm's way._

 _I'm sorry I scared you._

 _Should I just explain my previous life to him?_

 _There are so many times I considered telling you what I was and what I could do, but I was afraid._

 _Please forgive me._

When Sherlock finally opened his mouth, all he could get out was, "Hello John-"

He didn't have to say anything else. Because that was when John rushed forward and hugged him.

Words could wait. Explanations could wait. Apologies could wait. Talking about it was hard for Sherlock, and John knew that. If it was easy, Sherlock would have told him years ago. And John knew that. He was just happy that Sherlock was okay.

Sherlock Holmes truly was blessed.

* * *

John Watson began his day with the sound of Rosie crying and then in a panic because his bloody alarm hadn't gone off and he was _horribly_ off schedule. Anyone who's ever had to get a toddler ready for the day will tell you how difficult it is. So between doing that and getting _himself_ ready for the day, it was nearly an hour and a half until they were out the door. And by then, it was half past ten.

Despite it being only nine blocks away, it took John half an hour to get Rosie to daycare and to get her detangled from him. Then another ten minutes to get a cab and get to Barts. And by then, he was two hours late for work. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant. John didn't even glance at his phone. It was dead, which was why his alarm hadn't gone off in the first place. So he had no way of seeing the text from Molly.

John arrived at work apologizing profusely to his colleagues. And they all knew that as a single father, he faced the unexpected every single day, so they didn't criticize him too much.

John handed his phone to one of the nurses, Jeanelle, and asked her to charge it for him before rushing into his first appointment for the day.

Jeanelle was waiting for him when his appointment was over with his half-charged phone in hand. "Go," She'd said, showing him the texts from Molly that had popped up in his notifications. "I'll explain it to the boss, I'm sure she'll understand. And I'll take the blame if she doesn't."

John's heart had plummeted when he'd read them.

 _Sherlock's awake._

 _He's doing fine._

 _Mycroft just got here, Sherlock's still asking about you._

 _Sherlock's been released from the hospital. We're on our way to Baker Street._

 _We're at Baker Street, Sherlock's still asking about you._

 _Where are you? Did your phone die?_

With barely so much as a thank you, John took his phone, grabbed his things, and sprinted to the curb outside Barts to hail a cab.

John wasn't sure if it was the London traffic or if his cabbie was just a slow driver, but John paid the man and jumped out of the cab when they were just a few blocks from the flat and legged it the rest of the way on foot.

Those were the events that led John Watson to where he was, now. Catching his breath in the doorway to 221B. And there, in his chair in his usual suit as though it was back when everything was right in their little world, was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stood up when John entered. His hands held regally behind his back. And for a little while, neither of them said anything. To an outsider, Sherlock looked composed. But John knew Sherlock well enough to see right through it. The slight furrow of his brows and the subtle bob of his adam's apple when he gulped. Sherlock was nervous. And why wouldn't he be?

"Hello, John-" He spoke at last, but John heard the uncertainty in his voice and he knew that Sherlock had no idea what to say.

 _You don't have to say anything._

John hugged him.

They would talk about what happened. The _whys_ , the _hows_ , the apologies, and the inevitable words of forgiveness. They would talk about the future, too. But if Sherlock didn't have the words just yet, then John was more than happy to wait. They had all the time in the world.

He was just glad to have his best friend back. And John knew without a shadow of a doubt that no matter what or who was out there plotting to tear them apart, whether it be Moriarty or someone else, everything was going to be alright.

* * *

 **Woot woot! I hope you all enjoyed that! I know I loved writing it! I know that it seems like after every chapter, I say this is the second-to-last one, but this time I'm serious. There's going to be one last chapter, then an epilogue! Until then... please feel free to leave comments! Input always makes us writers feel warm and fuzzy on the inside, which makes us more inclined to update! Thanks a million! Until next time!**

 **-aa14**


	9. IX: I love you

They talked for hours about a great many things.

The conversation started off a little rocky, and perhaps a little awkward. John told Sherlock all about what had happened after Sherlock had passed out. Sherlock had of course already heard it from Molly but John provided a different perspective, so he was happy to let his friend talk. Sherlock apologized yet again for scaring everyone, thanked John for taking care of Molly and Mycroft, listened to the story of John's trek to the village, got a little angry at the way the local police had handled it, and laughed at John's description of the looks on their faces when the government showed up.

By the time John started talking about how Rosie was doing and what he had been doing all week, Sherlock felt considerably more comfortable and the urge to flee had mostly dissipated. When the conversation finally turned back around to the obvious, Sherlock was nervous but ready to talk about it.

He told John everything in complete honesty, not leaving a single thing out. The good, the bad. All of it. The truth about what and who he had been in his previous life, his death, his reincarnation, how long he'd been hiding his secret, all of it. There wasn't any point in lying about it. The secret was out, so John might as well know the whole truth.

John was understandably shocked about the existence of Middle Earth and about the fact that Sherlock had been reincarnated. He was even more surprised when Sherlock commented that John actually reminded him quite a lot of the little hobbit, the Barrel Rider and Maker of Riddles who had played a crucial part in his death.

"I remind you of one of the people who killed you?"

"In all the best ways. And he isn't technically one of the ones who killed me per say, he just flushed me out of the mountain."

"By covering you in molten gold?"

"That was almost entirely Oakenshield and his little band of dwarves. But yes, you are correct."

"How?"

"Well I just told you, they pulled a little trick on me to get me to light the forges and then there was a statue-"

"No, I mean how do I remind you of him?"

"You look like him. And he had nice manners, like you. Excluding that he was a thief and a liar, of course. He was a hobbit, so he was considerably smaller than you. But you look and sound so much like him that not long after we met, I began to suspect that you were reincarnated too, John. Though, there's no way to prove it. And if you were, you obviously don't remember it."

"What the bloody hell is a hobbit?"

"They're among the peoples who inhabited Middle Earth. He wouldn't tell me exactly where he was from, just that he came from 'under the hill', whatever that meant. Hobbits were small, only about the size of a child, and they had big furry feet." Sherlock chuckled, remembering how the tiny John-like figure had scurried over the gold. It was amusing only in retrospect of course, he had been simply furious at the time.

Once they got past that topic, it turned into how it felt to die.

"I felt the pain when the arrow hit my heart." Sherlock said. "It was such a small injury, but where it was made all the difference. It hurt so much. But it didn't last very long. In a panic, I just flew. Up and up and up over the lake as high as I could because I didn't want to fall. I could feel myself slipping away, but I didn't want to. The last thing I remember is everything going black. And when my vision returned, the first thing I remember is Mycroft looking down at me as a child."

"That must have been really scary." John said, unable to hide his sympathy.

"It was. It took me a while to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't a dragon, anymore. And learning to walk on two legs was a pain in the ass."

"So then, how long have you been able to turn into Smaug?"

Sherlock told him.

"Wow." Was all John had to say. "Just- you've been keeping all that to yourself all this time. Didn't you ever feel lonely?"

"Dragons are solitary creatures by nature. Alone was what we had. We filled the empty space in our cold, black hearts with treasure. We were simply too big and too competitive to share territory any longer than the breeding season."

"Do you ever miss it, then?"

"Miss what? I can turn into a dragon whenever I wish now, so I can't say I miss that-"

"Your horde, from your previous life. All that treasure and your home under the mountain. You died for it, I know it meant a great deal to you."

"Of course I don't miss it." Sherlock said. "Every single piece of treasure under that mountain may have sparkled, but they were all just cold, lifeless pieces of replaceable metal and rock, every single coin and gem identical to all of the others. You, Molly, Mycroft, and all of the others who I hold dear, are made of flesh and blood with unreplicatable personalities all your own. You are irreplaceable. I'd happily trade all of that cursed treasure, every scale off my body, and even my soul for just one of you."

John tilted his head and pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. And just as Sherlock was beginning to think he may have said something a bit not good, John surged forward and hugged him yet again.

The rest of the story was told with little incident. John was an excellent listener and he asked as many questions as he wanted without a single complaint from Sherlock. He had never really gotten to talk about that side of himself before, and it felt really good to talk about it. The conversation never once ran dry until an alarm on John's phone went off reminding him to go pick up Rosie from daycare. They were both shocked at just how long they had just been sitting in the flat, talking like the old friends they were.

John left to go pick up Rosie, promising to return so that Sherlock could see her before they went home to 221C. Apparently John had moved out of 221B and into 221C during the week he was out. He knew he probably should have been upset, but his first thought when he heard the news was: Now Molly can move in!

Love really does make men mad in the very best of ways.

* * *

Long after John had taken Rosie down to 221C so that the two of them could retire, Sherlock stood by one of the windows of 221B composing and thinking. Unlike the gentle, content-sounding piece, Bliss, that he had been strumming in the gardens at the hospital, this piece was among his darker ones. It was slow and solemn with moments that created a sense of tension and nervous anticipation, then a sudden ferocious cacophony of notes. He was titling it, The Hunt, and that was exactly what Sherlock was thinking about as he composed.

The swirling tornado of emotions, both good and bad, had made Sherlock temporarily overlook something very important that he knew that he couldn't ignore.

Moriarty.

Sherlock was composing and forcing himself to think about the hunt ahead in order to distract himself from the anger at himself that was stirring in his gut. While he had succeeded at the most important thing: saving his precious horde, he had utterly failed at the second most important thing: he had failed to kill James Moriarty.

The man simply needed to die. It didn't matter how not-boring their games were. Every second that man was alive on this Earth was a second that those he held dear were still in danger. Sherlock would make good and damn sure he was dead this time. It was the only way to make the world truly safe for those he held dear.

The fact that John now had a baby daughter and Sherlock had a good possibility of a bright future with Molly made Moriarty's death all the more necessary.

Sherlock stiffened at the sound of a soft knock upon his door. He stopped playing and turned. Intently, with the sensitive ears of a dragon, he listened. The sound that met him was that of a nervous shuffling as someone shifted their weight from foot to foot, then bounced anxiously on their heels intermingled with the rapid, excited beating of a heart and the soft exhale of breath as the woman standing at the other side of the door sighed to herself.

Molly.

He would know Molly's sound anywhere.

Knowing she was here made his heart beat a little faster and a smile grace his lips. Sherlock set his violin beside his chair and crossed the room in three long strides. He paused only momentarily to straighten his suit and ruffle his hair in a way he knew she liked before he took a deep breath and opened the door.

The moment the two of them laid eyes on each other, both of them were flustered. Molly even more so. Her reddened cheeks, fidgeting, and the way she almost immediately avoided his direct gaze somehow added to her beauty. Her makeup was subtle yet nice and she was dressed in a simple dark blue velvet dress and flats. Her usual auburn ponytail was accented with a braid on each side. Her slender neck and cute ears were adorned with sapphires and gold just as sweet and subtle as the dress. It suited her. Much better than the last dress she had tried to wear in this flat, the one she'd worn at that Christmas Party some years ago. That one had been so utterly not-Molly. This dress was sweet, humble, elegant, and intelligent all at once; all things he loved about the person wearing it, actually.

"Sherlock!" She piped up, trying and failing to appear brave and confident.

"Molly." He said, smiling and leaning casually on one arm in the doorframe, trying to quiet his own internal screaming but hiding it considerably better than she was. His brain was screeching deductions at him that he was trying his best to ignore. She's wearing blue, a color I am well known to like. Red lipstick. Overnight bag. Bottle of birth control pills sticking out of a bag side pocket. She wants- fuck.

Sherlock was suddenly very grateful for his choice of wardrobe at that particular moment. Simply because he had felt like it, not too long after John left, he had changed into a particular well-fitted purple shirt that he knew for certain drove Molly insane whenever he wore it. He hadn't even put it on with her in mind. It was simply a comfortable shirt.

"Erm, hullo." She said, clearly noticing the sudden pause. Sherlock mentally smacked himself. Get a grip!

"You- you look beautiful. I mean- you always look beautiful to me but you erm- I like the dress. It's much better than that one from a few years ago. Sorry- forget I said that. The point is, you look particularly beautiful right now." Sherlock said, trying with every ounce of emotional knowledge he had to not accidentally say something a bit not good and screw this up.

If possible, her face suddenly got even redder. She's so cute! Shit! "Thank you. You look- you always look good, Sherlock."

"So," Sherlock stepped aside to let her into the flat and forced himself to avoid looking at the way that dress went perfectly with her curves. "What brings you by?" He knew of course, but stating it bluntly might be a bit not good.

"I um, I haven't been sleeping well at home and I was wondering, erm, Sherlock-" She stepped into the flat and Sherlock closed the door behind her before turning around to face her. "CouldIpleasebewithyoutonight?" She asked quickly.

I haven't been sleeping well at home. Sherlock's eyes landed on a fading bruise on her collarbone that she had failed to completely conceal with makeup.

Deep inside his mind palace, the dragon poked its head out of the gold and gowled. Now isn't the time to get angry all over again. She isn't just here for- other things, she's here because you make her feel safe.

Sherlock smiled warmly at her and reached out to pull her into a hug. She relaxed a bit in his embrace and he buried his nose in her hair, cherishing the smell and feeling of her. "Of course you can stay with me, Molly. You can stay with me whenever you want, for however long you want. My door is always open."

She looked up at him and Sherlock found himself entranced by her eyes. They were such a lovely, warm brown, and it was surprising to him that such innocent eyes belonged to someone who had seen so much. He was so busy staring that he wasn't anticipating it when she suddenly dropped her bag, threw her arms around his shoulders, and her mouth met his in a frenzied kiss.

Sherlock wasn't surprised for long and in an instant, he was kissing her back. He had kissed Molly Hooper a great many times that day, and yet every time felt like the first time all over again. But at the same time, this kissing was different from the others. It was heated, needy, lustful, and both of them wanted to go much further than just kissing and were quite determined to do so.

Sherlock picked Molly up by her thighs and backed her up to brace her against the wall so that she had no choice other than to wrap her legs around his torso. Sherlock groaned and let his hands start to explore as her slender fingers dug into his curls and scratched his scalp in such a wonderful way. Sherlock moved his mouth from her lips to her neck, muttering a mantra of her name and "I love you" over and over as he planted gentle open-mouthed kisses along the length of her throat. Molly tilted her head back as far as it would go to give him better access, gasping and moaning in a way that sent Sherlock's blood south. He must have been doing something she liked, because she started grinding her core against him. And call it weakness, but he started doing the same immediately.

Moriarty could fucking wait. The whole world could, for all he cared. He was in love. He had fought, and he would soon have to fight again. But for now, he could forget about consulting criminals, dragons, and all of the other baggage that came with being Sherlock bloody Holmes and remind himself of what kept him human. For now, he could just be happy and lose himself in the marvel that was her.

* * *

Sherlock woke up abruptly at about three o'clock in the morning. Happiness bubbled up inside him the moment he realized he was spooning Molly in his bed and his brain caught up with him as to why, and what they'd done just hours before.

The happiness didn't last long.

Something was wrong.

Sherlock's instincts were screaming danger signals at him. He could feel the inconsistency in the air where there was something in the flat that shouldn't be, and the soft sound of a heartbeat, breath, the tapping of a wooden sole on carpet, and- dare he say it, the sound of 70's Pop music softly playing through a pair of earbuds. All of this, coupled with a smell. The revolting stench of someone who most certainly was not welcome.

Sherlock didn't have to check a mirror to know his eyes were orange. Molly is literally right next to you. Remain. Calm.

Sherlock maneuvered himself out from under her, careful not to disturb her, and quickly put on a suit at the same time that he started growing scales all over his chest and torso; a makeshift bulletproof vest. He could feel his horns starting to poke out, hidden by his curls. And when he tested it with his tongue, his teeth were undoubtedly longer and sharper than usual. Sherlock fought for control, trying with every molecule of discipline he possessed to refrain from changing any further.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned sharply and pressed a finger to his lips. He didn't need to explain. She saw the subtle changes in his face, and she saw the amber glow to his eyes, and she knew there was only one thing that could make him like that. She knew. And in an instant, she was up and quietly pulling her dress back on.

Sherlock snuck out of the room, careful to step quietly down the short hallway. His sound and his stench got stronger with each step. And then, there sat the bastard himself. Jim fucking Moriarty. The cocky prick was sitting in John's chair chewing bubble gum and tapping his foot to the beat of some song by the Bee Gees.

Sherlock tried to refrain from ripping the man's face off right then and there by sitting up straight and proud with his hands clasped behind his back. The last time James Moriarty had been in his flat, he'd had complete confidence and control and had shown it by rudely sitting in Sherlock's chair. But the fact that he was now sitting in John's was a dead giveaway. It was clear to Sherlock that the consulting criminal's encounter with Smaug, the Dragon Dread, had taught him some manners when it came to Sherlock. He didn't know if the man was trying to appear in control by pretending to take his sweet time acknowledging Sherlock or if he was genuinely that lost in his music, but Molly was just in the next room and Sherlock was already pissed.

"Jim." He said sharply and sternly, using Smaug's voice just to get under the criminal's skin.

Moriarty looked up at Sherlock, popped a bubble, finally took those damn ear buds out, and stood up. The two men faced each other and for a moment, maybe two, neither said a thing.

"I would've visited you at the hospital," Jim said, "But you know- all the armed guards. I was put under the distinct impression I wasn't wanted."

"You were not, and I'm so relieved you were nowhere near me while I was in a coma."

"I'm disappointed too. It would have made this so much easier." Jim said. And then, there was a gun pointed right at Sherlock's chest. No matter, Sherlock had been expecting that very thing. And under the deep red shirt Sherlock had thrown on, Jim had no way of knowing that Sherlock's entire torso was bulletproof scales. Still though, Sherlock had to be careful. If he moved too suddenly then Jim could move his aim from his chest to his head, and that wasn't bulletproof.

Sherlock cracked a smile and slowly started to walk around Jim towards his own chair, even if doing so did put him right by the window and therefore in easy view of the snipers that were most likely outside. He didn't want a gun pointed anywhere near Molly's direction. "Come now, Jim. A gun? Don't tell me your time in hiding has made you predictable." Sherlock said, increasing the volume of his voice on purpose both to let Molly know what was going on, and to hide any noise she might be making from Moriarty's ears. Sherlock wasn't certain whether or not Jim even knew she was here, but he was giving her a chance to take him by surprise, anyway.

Molly! If he manages to kill me, she's here. He was going to rape her, himself. Those other pigs were the fucking backup plan. If he kills me- The thought was enough to make the dragon inside him snarl with rage. I can't let that happen. I can't let him have his way with her! Despite these thoughts swirling in his mind, Sherlock kept his face passive. He didn't even know if Jim knew Molly was there.

"I know what I saw that night, Sherlock." Jim said with a shrug, as if he had seen Sherlock turn into a pixie instead of a dragon. "And I don't know how, but I know it was real."

"What was real, exactly?" Sherlock smirked with a tilt of his head. He kept his eyes open, just to let the criminal watch the orange creep into his blue orbs like spreading flames. "What exactly did you see that night, Dear Jim?" He asked. Smaug's voice was meant to strike fear, and Sherlock got exactly the reaction he wanted. The sheen of sweat on the criminal's forehead, the slight flicker of uncertainty, the tightening of his fingers around the gun, and the subtle movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. "Go on. I want you to say it." Sherlock growled. The odor of fear in the room was steadily increasing, and deep in Sherlock's mind palace, Smaug the Terrible was rising from the gold, shaking the coins off of his gargantuan body, preparing to spread his wings, his haunches tightening in preparation to pounce, his inferno rising in his chest.

Sherlock kept his eyes trained on Moriarty, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Molly creeping barefooted down the hallway as stealthily as possible, the gun Sherlock kept in a bedside drawer in hand. How fitting it was, that it was that particular weapon. It was the very same Army Browning L9A1 Sherlock had held steady the night at the pool when he came face to face with Moriarty for the very first time. She's armed. And she's strong. Even if you die, she won't let him do anything to her. Sherlock told himself.

"You're not ordinary." Jim said, still refusing to say it outright.

"No, Jim. No I'm not ordinary. But do tell me, what about me exactly isn't ordinary? Go on Jim, you know that wasn't the answer I was looking for. Say it!"

Jim swallowed. "You're a dragon." He finally said with an insane giggle. "A bloody. Fuck mothering. Dragon… and I suppose that makes me a dragon slayer, doesn't it?" He asked.

"Dragon hunter, not slayer." Sherlock corrected. "I'm not dead yet."

"True, true. But there's just one thing, Sherlock. One teensey thing I just have to know before I kill you. Which, I am doing. Tonight. You just can't be allowed to continue to be alive, not now that I know what you are." He laughed, pupils tightening with madness. "A dragon! A demon who fights on the side of the angels!" He shook his head. "That just doesn't make sense, does it? No sense at all. You shouldn't exist. Dragons don't exist. Except, clearly, they do! So just tell me, Sherlock! Tellmetellmetellmetellme HOW _!_ " He shouted the last word. "How? How and why do you exist? Because I think I might go mad if I don't get that question answered." His voice cracked with desperation.

Sherlock never got the chance to decide whether or not he wanted to answer that question, because at that very moment, his phone rang. It was in his pocket, and he'd know the ringtone anywhere.

"It's Mycroft." Sherlock said, returning his voice to its' usual baritone. "If I don't answer it, this place will be swarming in a minute."

Jim's jaw tightened with frustration, but he gave Sherlock a nod.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and answered it. "Brother mine."

"Uninvited house guests are an awful bother, aren't they Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice asked over the line. He knew Moriarty was there. Of course he did. "Especially at three in the morning when they bring two dozen snipers and another handful of hired muscle with them. If that's what's holding you back, we got them all. There's nothing but civilians and special forces in a three block radius. So please do the entire world a favor and make good and damn sure he doesn't fake it this time."

"You're absolutely sure you've taken all the black pieces but the king?" Sherlock asked.

"With utmost certainty." Mycroft replied on the other end of the line.

"Alright then, checkmate." Sherlock hung up and set his phone down on the arm of his chair behind him.

"You're helping your dear brother with chess, now?" Moriarty asked. But Sherlock knew he was bluffing ignorance. He knew.

"The greatest game ever played." Sherlock said. He would give Moriarty that honor, but no more. It had indeed been a great game. The greatest game ever played between two of the greatest players any world had to offer. "Your backup is gone. Mycroft took them out. It's just you and me."

Moriarty took a deep breath. He knew he was done, but he still had hope that he could take Sherlock out before he fell. His aim moved from Sherlock's chest to his head, his finger started to tighten- There was a deafening bang and a rose of crimson exploded out of Jim Moriarty's shoulder an instant before a lone 9mm bullet buried itself in the wall between the flat's two windows from Sherlock's Army Browning L9A1. Thank you, Molly! Moriarty cried out in surprise and pain, his aim was thrown off, and Sherlock didn't fucking hesitate.

Simultaneously changing but not feeling the pain, Sherlock launched himself at the Consulting Criminal with a force equal to the bullet that had pierced his shoulder. Both man and beast (but which was which?) were thrown into the kitchen area and Sherlock shouted, "MOLLY, BATHROOM!" Before he sank his teeth into Jim's flesh, and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. James Moriarty screamed in absolute agony and terror, legs kicking and hands pushing Sherlock's head, beating his snout, grabbing his horns, trying in vain to plunge his fingers into Sherlock's eyes, but to no avail. Sherlock saw red and his ears were filled with a cacophony of ripping clothes and flesh, snapping bones, and deafening wails.

Then there was silence. And all was still.

* * *

Shaking in the bathtub in the bathroom of 221B Baker Street, Molly Hooper shut her eyes tight and held the gun close with her hands clamped firmly over her ears, trying to block out the horrible noises coming from outside. The screaming, the snarling, the shattering glass, and the ripping and squelching of flesh being torn apart. Her whole body was vibrating and her heart was still racing. I shot someone. Molly had never shot anyone before. She'd been aiming for the center of Jim's back, hoping the bullet would sever his spine and pierce his heart, kill him quickly. But her hand had been shaking so much out of fear that she was about to lose Sherlock, and out of her own fear at taking a life, that it had hit his shoulder, his shoulder connected to the arm pointing the gun at Sherlock. And because she'd been sloppy, Sherlock was outside finishing the job.

She wouldn't look at him any differently after tonight. She knew who and what he was and what he was capable of, but she loved him all the same. His heart had too much good in it for Molly to agree with Jim. He was no demon. Maybe in a past life, he had been. But not anymore.

Still, that didn't mean she wanted these sounds in her head, haunting her nightmares.

The screaming soon stopped, but the snarling and ripping continued.

Then, it was quiet.

A minute passed, maybe two. Or was it an hour? When Molly heard the door to the bathroom open and the sound of someone entering, then shutting the door behind them. The shower curtain was closed, but Molly didn't have to see who it was to know. What had just joined her in the bathroom was too big to be a man. Still, Molly had to be cautious. Holding the gun in front of her, Molly used the barrel of it to push the curtain aside so she could see out.

The dragon wasn't nearly as big as the one who'd rescued her on the island. In fact, Molly realized, Sherlock was far from fully transformed. Apart from the obvious difference in size between this version of Smaug and the one from last week, his body wasn't nearly as serpent-like and his face seemed more… human.

But he was a dragon, all the same. He was so big that Molly was shocked he'd fit through the door. He barely fit in the bathroom. He was hunched over the sink, his front talons gripping the counter and his massive wings were tucked in, concealing most of him from view. His long tail was coiled around nearly the entire circumference of the room before wrapping around the back claws of his feet. The blood soaking his muzzle and his claws did not bother Molly in the slightest. He was staring at himself in the mirror taking forced deep breaths in an obvious attempt at calming himself down.

Molly slowly put the gun down and stepped out of the tub. Cautiously, as not to startle him or step on his tail, she took the two steps forwards before gently brushing her fingers against the rough deep red scales on the side of one of his wings. He stiffened at her touch and a growl rose from his throat, but Molly kept gently petting his side, and his entire body relaxed like a taunt spring being slowly unwound. Molly had to take a step back when he opened that wing, but she recognized that he wasn't pushing her away by doing it, he was inviting her closer. Once he wrapped his wing back around her, though Molly knew it was a silly thought, she couldn't help but think it was like being in a big tent. And the only thing in it that mattered was him. Sherlock was physically fine but it was obvious to Molly that he was distressed. He avoided her gaze, his chest was glowing orange, his breath was almost as if he was trying not to cry, and his entire body was shaking.

"Sherlock," Molly said gently. "Sherlock, look at me."

He whimpered.

Molly reached out to tilt his huge head to look at her. "Look. At. Me." She said with a little more firmness. Once their eyes met, his eyes went from slits to about as dilated as they could possibly go and a sound almost like a purr escaped his throat. Molly didn't know how human he was at the moment, but all the same she smiled at him and gently stroked his snout before planting a kiss on his nose and resting her forehead against his head, the blood not bothering her at all. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. He's gone."

Just as he was seeming to finally be calm, he suddenly stiffened and abrubtly pulled her to him, staring at the door and snarling like a dragon ready to commit murder.

"Sherlock- what?" That's when Molly heard it. Many sets of footsteps thundering up the steps of the flat. She heard the door slam open, and the sound of many people entering the flat. "He's dead. I repeat, James Moriarty is dead, over." A voice said. It was English. Sherlock relaxed slightly, but remained tense. One set of footsteps started down the hallway. Or was it someone with three legs? Sherlock stiffened again, then immediately relaxed, even more so than before. No. That was footsteps, plus the sound of an umbrella on wood. Mycroft.

Now it made sense. That was why Sherlock relaxed. The footsteps started to walk past the bathroom, then stopped, turned back to the bathroom, and there came a soft knock on the door. "Sherlock? Are you in there? Are you all right?"

"Yes, Mycroft. We're in here." Molly said.

"Ah, Dr. Hooper. You're here, too. I thought there was someone else here, though I half expected it to be Dr. Watson. Are you both well?"

"Erm, physically I think so but well, just open the door a crack."

The door opened, and there stood Mycroft in the hallway. He paused momentarily in surprise, but recovered from it quickly enough. "Ah. I take it that he hasn't calmed down just yet."

"Erm, no. He hasn't actually said a word since-"

"Yes, I saw what he did. And I applaud your work, Sherlock. At first glance it just looks like an animal attack, but you were careful to destroy every single major organ beyond repair including the brain and heart. There's no possible way he survived that."

Sherlock- Smaug, whichever one of them they were talking to, didn't say anything. And despite the fact that he was victorious, there was no pride in his eyes at what he'd done. He just grunted and gave Mycroft a curt nod.

Mycroft smiled in a way that was almost understanding and reached out to give his brother an affectionate rub on the nose. "You had to do it, Sherlock. For everyone's sake. You know that, don't you? What you did wasn't pleasant, but it also wasn't wrong."

"I'm not sorry for what I did." Sherlock said at last. "I'm sorry I had to do it… it was a waste, Mycroft. He was- God, I hated him. I hated him and I wanted to kill him so badly. But now… He was so much like us, Mycroft. He could have been something great. Something wonderful. And not only that, but I- I could have been him. Or even worse. Such a foolish, sentimental thought. I tend to only reserve those for a select few." Molly felt his tail brush against her thigh, definitely on purpose.

"The what-ifs are not something to be dwelled on. Have a good night, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "I'll finish cleaning up here. Then I'll be off."

"Burn the body." Sherlock said. "I would have done it myself, but I like my flat."

"It's just a dead hunk of flesh now, Sherlock. He's gone."

"Call it an old Middle Earth superstition, but I'd really like it burned." Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded and started to close the door, but Sherlock spoke and made him pause.

"Thank you, Mycroft. For saving my life. For saving both our lives."

Mycroft smiled. "What is family for?"

And then, Mycroft quietly shut the bathroom door. And they were alone together once more.

* * *

Mycroft left the hallway and quickly made it clear to the operatives that they were to go nowhere near that hallway for any reason before finally standing aside and just watching them do their work.

Sherlock had been vicious and thorough. Moriarty's intestines were only halfway inside his body, his neck and throat were all but destroyed to the point you could actually see his spine if you looked at the right angle, and his chest had been torn open. In addition to that, there were scratches and bites on every single limb where Moriarty had vainly tried to defend himself and there was a set of three holes in the top of his skull where Sherlock had plunged his talons in to destroy his brain. Mycroft wasn't sure whether Sherlock had incinerated it with a little ball of fire or eaten it, because the criminal's heart was just gone with a spot of burnt flesh where it should be. It reminded Mycroft of what Moriarty had sworn to do to Sherlock, once. I will burn the heart out of you. On either side of the missing heart, both lungs had been clawed beyond repair and as for everything else… it looked like every other organ in there had just been stuffed in a blender and then poured back in. Still, perhaps as a way of preserving his enemy's honor (or possibly just to make damn sure the world knew whose body it was), the criminal's face, splattered with his own blood, was largely untouched.

Just looking at that glassy eyed, handsome face, Jim Moriarty almost looked peaceful in death, despite the violent way his life had come to an end. And Mycroft supposed that whether there was a hell or if he'd moved on to another life as Smaug had, anywhere else had to be more peaceful than this life he lived. Despite his brilliance, the mind of Jim Moriarty wasn't stable, and maybe it never had been from the moment he'd come into the world. And he was always bored. Always searching for something more. It was that search that had led him to Sherlock, and that had been the beginning of the end for him. And yet at the same time it seemed to Mycroft that his time on Earth facing Sherlock had been the only time in his life when the criminal had truly lived.

Trying not to vomit, Mycroft looked away.

And in a show of perfect timing, that was when John came running up the stairs followed by Mrs. Hudson.

"Mycroft!" He exclaimed. "What's going on?"

"Bleeding hell!" Said Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson, there are certain things that you could go your whole life without seeing. If you would please go downstairs," Mycroft practically begged, "All will be made clear to you."

Despite the landlady's protests, Mycroft signaled to one of the officers, who escorted her back down the stairs. John could take it, and he already knew about Sherlock's other side. Mycroft was certain however, that Sherlock wouldn't want his beloved landlady to see his dirty work.

"Mycroft, what is going on? What can't Mrs. Hudson see- Jesus!"

"You see now why I didn't want Mrs. Hudson to come in here?" Mycroft asked.

"Is that-"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is. He paid Sherlock a visit with a gun and Sherlock finally ended it."

"Oh my god. Where's Sherlock? Is he hurt?"

Mycroft leaned in so that only John could hear him. The special forces squad didn't ask questions, and they didn't know about Sherlock's other side. "Sherlock is in a rather… fiery mood right now. You could almost say he's simply… monstrous."

John understood what Mycroft meant, immediately. "Dear lord, where is he?"

"He is locked in the bathroom right now with Dr. Hooper trying to pull himself together. I think it would be wise not to disturb them until tomorrow afternoon."

"Molly is here?"

"Yes, it would seem she stayed over." Mycroft said smugly. He hadn't missed the hours-old post-coital glow, he simply hadn't said anything about it. "It was she that drew blood first, actually. From what I gather, Moriarty was preparing to shoot Sherlock and Molly shot him first; through the shoulder. Then Sherlock finished it."

"Remind me never to get on Molly's bad side."

"Dr. Hooper is too often underestimated, but in my experience she is a force to be reckoned with." Mycroft said, recalling the scar on his side where she'd stabbed him with the key to her flat years ago.

"I suppose she'd have to be. No one lesser could possibly handle Sherlock as she does."

"Indeed."

"You're sure I shouldn't-"

"Dr. Watson, your value in Sherlock's eyes cannot be undermined, but I believe that each of them is the best person to comfort the other right now. The best and only thing for you to do right now is to go back downstairs and calm down Mrs. Hudson and your daughter, then think of a way to write about all this in that blog of yours without even mentioning you-know-what."

John looked like he was about to say something else, but he just nodded and went back downstairs.

* * *

Sherlock went mute again after Mycroft left. He heard John's voice outside at one point, but he really didn't want to see John right now. He didn't want anyone else to see him like this. He didn't want anyone else in the flat at all, honestly. He just wanted the special forces team to finish cleaning up the awful mess he'd made in his kitchen and leave. Then, and only then, would the nightmare truly be over and he could finally be at peace. For now, all he could do was slink into a far corner of the bathroom in a ball as tight as he could and as far from the door as possible and wait it out until he was calm enough to turn back into his human self.

Fortunately, he didn't have to do it alone. Part of him wished Molly wasn't there to see him in such a state, and part of him was selfishly glad she was there. Molly didn't need him to ask to know that he didn't want to talk right now. Wordlessly, she turned the light off so that the room was illuminated only by a night light plugged into the wall and by the orange glow coming from his chest. Then she fetched a towel from under the sink, got it wet, and gently started wiping the blood from his face. All the while murmuring sweet nothings and giving him soft rubs on his horns and his jaw. Sherlock purred in the back of his throat and wondered how it was possible for one person to bring him so much joy. Once Molly was satisfied with the state of his face, she fetched a fresh towel and started on his front talons. By the time she was done with those, the flat was silent other than the two of them, and Sherlock realized that Mycroft had left and had taken the others with him. At last, they were alone in the flat. And still, they stayed locked in the bathroom for quite a long while. Not saying a word. Just letting the last few hours sink in and taking comfort in each other's company. Sherlock couldn't help but wrap his wings around Molly when she started running the wet cloth on his chest and neck, cleaning off the splashes and splatters of crimson.

His chest had long since ceased its amber glow as Sherlock calmed down, but it was only when Molly was nearly done that Sherlock started to change back. He whined and whimpered when it started; having seen it already once before, Molly reacted better this time. Sherlock tried to get away from her, not wanting to accidentally lash out, not wanting to hurt her, but she stubbornly stepped into the bathtub after him, pressed herself up against him and hugged him, muttering sweet and soothing words that truly did come from the heart. And because he was selfish, so so selfish, he leaned into her touch and tried his hardest to focus on her. Not the screaming agony of his nerve cells as his bones popped and cracked and changed their size and shape, as his muscles, tendons, and ligaments detached, reattached, and changed their structure, as his scales forced their way back into his body, and his organs squirmed and shifted and found new homes. Sherlock used every bit of self control he had not to touch her until his front limbs were arms once more and his fingers no longer ended in claws. Then he wrapped his arms around her tightly with his face buried in her chest and bit his lip to keep himself quiet, but he couldn't stop the tears in his eyes as his body made its final adjustments. Until finally, it was done. And he knelt before her on his knees, clothes that had been torn to ribbons by the change barely hanging onto his body and steam rising from his hot skin.

But even when the pain ceased into a dull throbbing ache, Sherlock cried. The physical suffering had started it, and the pain was part of it, but the overwhelming emotional roller coaster that had been the last few weeks coupled with the sheer magnitude of recent events kept the tears coming. And as his sobs slowed mere gasps and hiccups, as she always had been, Molly was there. Stroking and murmuring and holding him close. Until finally, at maybe five o'clock in the morning, he was placid. It was then and only then, sitting in the bathtub with Molly leaned against him between his legs, that he finally spoke.

"Molly." She looked up at him with those eyes. Those beautiful, warm, intelligent, innocent eyes.

"Molly, I-" God, why was he tearing up, again? And why was this so hard? It was in his head, it was true, and it needed to be said. So why couldn't he find the words?

"I'm sorry."

She turned around in his lap so that she was facing him. Sherlock opened his mouth, he knew what he wanted to say, but he wasn't quite sure how. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it. I'm sorry for waiting this long to finally return your feelings. I'm sorry that every time something terrible happens, it's somehow because of me. I'm sorry that you're constantly worried about me. I'm sorry that I'm a horrible, selfish man who has decided to keep you with me despite how dangerous I am. I'm sorry that you were nearly raped because of me. I'm sorry for Jim bloody Moriarty. I'm sorry that my soul is used, left over from another life. I'm sorry for tonight, I wanted you to have just one night of peace with me after all that's happened. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

But all that would come out was, "I'm sorry Molly. I'm so sorry."

And she smiled and wiped the tears from his eyes with her thumb, and he knew that she understood exactly what he was trying to say. And when she leaned forwards and kissed him, he knew in his heart that she didn't see anything for him to be sorry for; she forgave him. His marvel. His Molly.

Then she took him by the hand, and he followed her out of the bathroom at last and out into the hall, then into his bedroom. Their bedroom. And he apologized to her again. Rather than with the words that wouldn't come, he apologized with his kisses and conveyed his feelings with his tender touches and soft murmurs of "I love you." And again, she forgave him. She forgave him with her own kisses and gentle nuzzles, and with her fingers interlocked with his own as he showed her just how much he loved her.

"I love you."

"I love you."

* * *

"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."

― Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

"I would rather spend one lifetime with you than face all of the ages of this world alone."

― J.R.R Tolkien


End file.
